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