Through hedges, ditches, and through all that's ill.
'Twere crime in any man but him alone,
To use a body so, though 'tis one's own:
Yet this false comfort never gives him o'er,
That, whilst he creeps, his vigorous thoughts can soar:
Alas! that soaring to those few that know,
Is but a busy grovelling here below.
}
{ So men in rapture think they mount the sky,
{ Whilst on the ground the entranced wretches lie: