FastSaying
At last the Muses rose, . . . And scattered, . . . as they flew, Their blooming wreaths from fair Valclusa's bowers To Arno's myrtle border.
Mark Akenside
Rivers
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And the veil Spun from the cobweb fashion of the times, TO hid the feeling heart?
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The green retreats Of Academus.
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The man forget not, though in rags he lies, and know the mortal through a crown's disguise.
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Such and so various are the tastes of men.
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Away! Away! Tempt me no more insidious love.
— Mark Akenside
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