For What Is Glory But

A Poet Soaring In The High Reason Of His Fancies, With His Garland And Singing Robes About Him.

And As An Ev'ning Dragon Came, Assailant On The Perched Roosts And Nests In Order Rang'd Of Tame Villatic Fowl.

He 's Gone, And Who Knows How He May Report Thy Words By Adding Fuel To The Flame?

The Work Under Our Labour Grows, Luxurious By Restraint.

How Charming Is Divine Philosophy! Not Harsh And Crabbed, As Dull Fools Suppose, But Musical As Is Apollo's Lute, And A Perpetual Feast Of Nectar'd Sweets Where No Crude Surfeit Reigns