Mark Akenside

The man forget not, though in rags he lies,
And know the mortal through a crown's disguise.

The man forget not, though in rags he lies,
And know the mortal through a crown's disguise.

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.

This was Shakespeare's form;
Who walked in every path of human life,
Felt every passion; and to 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.

Seeks painted trifles and fantastic toys, and eagerly pursues imaginary joys.

Seeks painted trifles and fantastic toys, and eagerly pursues imaginary joys.