O Peace! How Many Wars

But See, The Shepherds Shun The Noonday Heat, The Lowing Herds To Murmuring Brooks Retreat, To Closer Shades The Panting Flocks Remove; Ye Gods! And Is There No Relief For Love?

Who Pants For Glory, Finds But Short Repose; A Breath Revives Him, Or A Breath O'erthrows.

Nay, Fly To Altars; There They'll Talk You Dead; For Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear To Tread.

In Lazy Apathy Let Stoics Boast, Their Virtue Fixed, 'tis Fixed As In A Frost.

Order Is Heaven's First Law; And This Confess, Some Are And Must Be Greater Than The Rest.