O MORTAL virtue and immortal sin,
How often hast thou led the fool aright,
Sent forth a shivering coward to the fight,
And made the worst man win!

Thine are the laurels giddy Pleasure lost,
The crown that hard Endeavour hardly earned;
And Glory woos thee, whom thy foot hath spurned,
With all her host.

He that hath thee, tho' poor in seeming wealth,
Is not bereft. He that hath all beside,
Lives like a beggar, being poor in pride,
And dies by stealth.

There is no writer that shall not perish; but what his hand hath
written endureth ever.
Write, therefore, nothing but what will please thee when thou shalt
see it on the day of judgment.

Who sprinkled the kohl of enchantment upon her eyes
And gathered the bloom of the rose from her cheeks, fruitwise?
And who was it let down the curtained night of her hair
And through its gloom made the light of her forehead rise?

Some to extinguish, others to prevent,
A mad devotion to one dangerous fair,
Court all they meet; in hopes to dissipate
The cares of love amongst an hundred brides.
The event is doubtful: for there are who find
A cure in this; there are who find it not.
'Tis no relief, alas! it rather galls
The wound, to those who are sincerely sick.
For while from feverish and tumultuous joys
The nerves grow languid and the soul subsides,
The tender fancy smarts with every sting,
And what was love before is madness now.
Is health your care, or luxury your aim,

Let those who from the frozen Arctos reach
Parched Mauritania, or the sultry West,
Or the wide flood that laves rich Indostan,
Plunge thrice a day, and in the tepid wave
Untwist their stubborn pores; that full and free
The evaporation through the softened skin
May bear proportion to the swelling blood.
So may they 'scape the fever's rapid flames;
So feel untainted the hot breath of hell.
With us, the man of no complaint demands
The warm ablution just enough to clear
The sluices of the skin, enough to keep
The body sacred from indecent soil.

Womanhood , wanton, ye want:
Your meddling, mistress, is mannerless;
Plenty of ill, of goodness scant,
Ye rail at riot, reckless:
To praise your port it is needless;
For all your draff yet and your dregs,
As well borne as ye full oft time begs.

Why so coy and full of scorn?
Mine horse is sold, I ween, you say;
My new furréd gown, when it is worn . . .
Put up your purse, ye shall not pay!
By crede, I trust to see the day,
As proud a pea-hen as ye spread,
Of me and other ye may have need!

Though angelic be your smiling,

By music's pow'r, sweet Amphion model'd rocks,
And by it, Orpheus led the bleating flocks;
One rais'd a city by his sounding lyre;
The other quell'd the raging lion's ire.
Here sounds more charming strike the ravish'd ear,
That stop e'en Eacchus in his wild career.
Hail! beauteous child, which shall we most admire,
Thy voice harmonious, or thy tuneful lyre?
If at this age you thus insnare the heart,
What will thy charms! when nature plays her part?

Do not unjustly blame
My guiltless breast,
For venturing to disclose a flame
It had so long supprest.

In its own ashes it design'd
For ever to have lain;
But that my sighs, like blasts of wind,
Made it break out again.

After the dazzle of day is gone,
Only the dark, dark night shows to my eyes the stars;
After the clangor of organ majestic, or chorus, or perfect band,
Silent, athwart my soul, moves the symphony true.

How cool and sweet, O breeze of morn,
Thou stirrest in the air,
Caressing soft the dewy flowers,
The young girl's clustering hair!
But not my country's breeze thou art.
Blow past! thou canst not touch my heart.

How sweetly and how soulfully
Thou singest from the grove,
O bird, while men admire thy voice
In tender hours of love!
But not my country's bird thou art.
Sing elsewhere! Deaf to thee my heart.

With what a gentle murmur,
O brook, thy current flows,
Reflecting in its mirror clear
The maiden and the rose!