Herrick.
But desperate is their doom whom doubt has driven
To censure fate, and pious hope forego;
Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven,
Perfection, beauty, life, they never know,
But frown on all who pass, a monument of woe.
Beattie.
Ah! thou knowest not the war of struggling thought
That agitates my soul. I find in all
Some peril still to dread. I choose, and then