The Consolation cancels the Complaint,
And makes a convert of my guilty song.
As when o’er-labour’d, and inclined to breathe,
A panting traveller, some rising ground,
Some small ascent, has gain’d, he turns him round,
And measures with his eye the various vales,
The fields, woods, meads, and rivers, he has pass’d;
And, satiate of his journey, thinks of home,
Endear’d by distance, nor affects more toil;
Thus I, though small, indeed, is that ascent 520