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Say, what can public Themes afford,
Save venal Honours to an hateful Lord,
Reserv'd for angry Heaven, & scorn'd of honest Fame?
IV. 2.
To all her valiant Sons is known;
Where All direct the Sword she wears,
And each the Power, that rules him, shares;
Here let the Bard, whose listless Feet
From public Labours would retreat,
Bid public Joys farewell:
Let him to fitter Climes remove,
Far from the Heroe's and the Patriot's Lore,
And lull mysterious Monks to slumber in their Cell.
IV. 3.
