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Ombrage:
Yet who shall say they are not happiest, these,
Whose dull soul never quickens with a pang,
Who never know the dear divine unrest,
The stirring of a worthy discontent,
Fretted by no such fever as attends
The sprouting of the vans celestial
Which wither'd from us when to earth we fell!
The clods' indifference to a wooing star,
Is theirs, and crass contentment of the clod.
(To the By-standers.)
But shun you Beauty as a very bane
Which like the sea in equinoctial might
May break the dyke that guards your sluggish lives,
Sweeping unwonted currents on your calm,
Ruinous, overwhelming
