Nor felt his Spirits rise or fall,
As Fortune pleas’d to smile or frown?
He was no Pipe on which she play’d,
As her capricious Hand inclin’d; 10
But that sweet Music that he made
Rose from his own harmonious Mind.
Aspiring, yet he never gave
Himself to watch a Patron’s Will;
Tender, but yet no Beauty’s Slave,
Nor Victim to coquettish Skill.