Mark Akenside

At last the Muses rose, . . . And scattered, . . . as they flew,
Their blooming wreaths read more

At last the Muses rose, . . . And scattered, . . . as they flew,
Their blooming wreaths from fair Valclusa's bowers
To Arno's myrtle border.

And the veil, spun from the cobweb fashion of the times, to hid the feeling heart.

And the veil, spun from the cobweb fashion of the times, to hid the feeling heart.

Such and so various are the tastes of men.

Such and so various are the tastes of men.

This was Shakespeare's form; who walked in every path of human life, felt every passion; and to all mankind doth read more

This was Shakespeare's form; who walked in every path of human life, felt every passion; and to all mankind doth now, will ever, that experience yield which his own genius only could acquire.

Away! Away! Tempt me no more insidious love.

Away! Away! Tempt me no more insidious love.