Some vanity, I know, is in this strain,
But men may be with reason sometimes vain:
Shall he alone who does a worthy deed
Not pay himself, if so he will, that meed
Of self-applause from which all virtues spring,—
Without it who would do a noble thing?
So let the world arraign me as it will,
It cannot now my satisfaction chill,
Since you, dear friend! and all whose praise I prize,
Look on my labours with approving eyes.