And What Is Faith, Love, Virtue Unassayed

Such Joy Ambition Finds.

The Oracles Are Dumb, No Voice Or Hideous Hum Runs Through The Arched Roof In Words Deceiving. Apollo From His Shrine Can No More Divine, With Hollow Shriek The Steep Of Delphos Leaving. No Nightly Trance Or Breathed Spell Inspires The Pale-eyed Priest From The Prophetic Cell.

But Pain Is Perfect Misery, The Worst Of Evils, And Excessive, Overturns All Patience.

Wherefore Did He [god] Create Passions Within Us, Pleasures Round About Us, But That These Rightly Tempered Are The Very Ingredients Of Virtue?

The Work Under Our Labour Grows, Luxurious By Restraint.