Come then, tell me, sage divine, 
 Is it an offence to own 
 That our bosoms e'er incline 
 Toward immortal glory's throne? 
 For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, 
 Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure, 
 So can fancy's dream rejoice, 
 So conciliate reason's choice, 
As one approving word of her impartial voice. 

 If to spurn at noble praise 
 Be the pass-port to thy heaven, 
 Follow thou those gloomy ways; 
 No such law to me was given, 
 Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me 
 Faring like my friends before me; 
 Nor an holier place desire 
 Than Timolean's arms acquire, 
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.