What does she promise, but what beings born
To our high destiny should hold in scorn?
In reason’s balance her best offers weigh,
And see what worthless lightness they betray.
There are who, burning in the track of fame,
Wear themselves ruthless for a sounding name.
Buy it with blood, and fire, and ruin wide;
And if with horrid arm is death descried,
Waving his pennon as from some high tower,
Their hearts swell proud, and trampling fierce they scour