Or If Virtue Feeble Were, Heav'n Itself

Peace Hath Her Victories, No Less Renowned Than War.

It Was That Fatal And Perfidious Bark, Built In Th' Eclipse, And Rigg'd With Curses Dark.

For The Air Of Youth, Hopeful And Cheerful, In Thy Blood Will Reign A Melancholy Damp Of Cold And Dry To Weigh Thy Spirits Down, And Last Consume The Balm Of Life.

Who Overcomes By Force, Hath Overcome But Half His Foe.

The Spirits Perverse With Easy Intercourse Pass To And Fro, To Tempt Or Punish Mortals.