Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
Admirals extolled for standing still, or doing nothing with a deal of skill.
All we behold is miracle.
There is in souls a sympathy with sounds: And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.
We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.