O Pleasure, we blaspheme not thee;
Nor emulate the rigid knee
Which bends but at the Stoic throne.
5 We own, had fate to man assign'd
Nor sense, nor wish but what obey,
Or Venus soft, or Bacchus gay,
Then might our bard's voluptuous creed
Most aptly govern human kind:
Unless perchance what he hath sung
Of tortured joints and nerves unstrung,
Some wrangling heretic should plead.
6 But now, with all these proud desires
For dauntless truth and honest fame;
With that strong master of our frame,
The inexorable judge within,
What can be done? Alas, ye fires
Of love; alas, ye rosy smiles,
Ye nectar'd cups from happier soils,--
Ye have no bribe his grace to win.
ODE VII.
TO THE RIGHT REVEREND BENJAMIN, LORD BISHOP OF WINCHESTER. 1754.
I.--l.
For toils which patriots have endured,
For treason quell'd and laws secured,
In every nation Time displays
The palm of honourable praise.
Envy may rail, and Faction fierce
May strive; but what, alas, can those
(Though bold, yet blind and sordid foes)
To Gratitude and Love oppose,
To faithful story and persuasive verse?
I.
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