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Poem by Mark Akenside
On a Sermon Against Glory
I. Come then, tell me, sage divine, Is it an offence to own That our bosoms e'er incline Toward immortal glory's throne? For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure, So can fancy's dream rejoice, So conciliate reason's choice, As one approving word of her impartial voice. II. If to spurn at noble praise Be the pass-port to thy heaven, Follow thou those gloomy ways; No such law to me was given, Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me Faring like my friends before me; Nor an holier place desire Than Timolean's arms acquire, And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.
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