But what those seasons, from the teeming earth,
To doating sense indulge. But nobler minds,
Which relish fruits unripen’d by the sun,
Make their days various; various as the dyes 380
On the dove’s neck, which wanton in his rays.
On minds of dove-like innocence possess’d,
On lighten’d minds, that bask in virtue’s beams,
Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves
In that for which they long, for which they live.
Their glorious efforts, wing’d with heavenly hope,