184. Entrust thy fortune to the pow'rs above:
Leave them to manage for thee, and grant
What their unerring wisdom sees thee want.
DRYDEN. 185. But o revenge is sweet!
Thus think the croud; who, eager to engage,
Take quickly fire and kindle into rage.
Not so mild Thçles, nor Chryfippus thought,
Nor that good man, who drank the pois'nous draught
With mind serené; and could not wish to see
His vile accuser drink as deep as he.
Exalted Socrates! divinely brave !
Injur'd he fell, and dying he forgave,
Too noble for revenge ; which still we find
The weakest frailty of a feeble mind.
DRYDEN. 186. Place me, where never summer-breeze
Unbinds the glebe, or warms the trees;
Where ever-lowering clouds appear,
And angry Jove deforms th’inclement year:
Love and the nymph shall charm my toils;
The nymph, who sweetly speaks and sweetly smiles.
FRANCIS. 187. Love alters not for us his hard decrees;
Nor tho'beneath the Thracian clime we freeze,
Or the mild bliss of temperate skies forego,
And in mid winter tread Sithonian Inow.
Love conquers all.