Mark Akenside

At last the Muses rose, . . . And scattered, . . . as they flew,
Their blooming wreaths read more

At last the Muses rose, . . . And scattered, . . . as they flew,
Their blooming wreaths from fair Valclusa's bowers
To Arno's myrtle border.

The man forget not, though in rags he lies, and know the mortal through a crown's disguise.

The man forget not, though in rags he lies, and know the mortal through a crown's disguise.

The man forget not, though in rags he lies,
And know the mortal through a crown's disguise.

The man forget not, though in rags he lies,
And know the mortal through a crown's disguise.

And the veil, spun from the cobweb fashion of the times, to hid the feeling heart.

And the veil, spun from the cobweb fashion of the times, to hid the feeling heart.

Such and so various are the tastes of men.

Such and so various are the tastes of men.