I. <br />Come then, tell me, sage divine, <br />Is it an offence to own <br />That our bosoms e'er incline <br />Toward immortal glory's throne? <br />For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, <br />Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure, <br />So can fancy's dream rejoice, <br />So conciliate reason's choice, <br />As one approving word of her impartial voice. <br /> <br />II. <br />If to spurn at noble praise <br />Be the pass-port to thy heaven, <br />Follow thou those gloomy ways; <br />No such law to me was given, <br />Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me <br />Faring like my friends before me; <br />Nor an holier place desire <br />Than Timolean's arms acquire, <br />And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.<br /><br />Mark Akenside<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-xvii-on-a-sermon-against-glory/
