Fear not the anger of the wise to raise; Those best can fear reproof who merit praise.

What beck’ning ghost along the moonlight shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?

Like Cato, give his little senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause.

Ye flowers that drop, forsaken by the spring, Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing, Ye trees that fade, when Autumn heats remove, Say, is not absence death to those who love?

Thus sung the shepherds till th’ approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck’d the glade, And the low sun had lengthened every shade.

In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois’nous herbs extracts the healing dew?