Mark Akenside

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.

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.

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.

Away! Away! Tempt me no more insidious love.

Away! Away! Tempt me no more insidious love.

Such and so various are the tastes of men.

Such and so various are the tastes of men.