When highest placed on giddy Fortune's wheel, Unhappy man must soon expect to feel A sad reverse, and in the changing round With rapid whirl as sudde… - John Hoole

When Fame, O monarch! good or evil tells,
Evil or good beyond the truth she swells.

Ah! why so rare does cruel Love inspire
Two tender bosoms with a mutual fire?
Say, whence, perfidious, dost thou pleasure find
To sow dissension in the human mind?

The spotless maid is like the blooming rose
Which on its native stem unsullied grows;
Where fencing walls the garden-space surround,
Nor swains, nor browsing cattle tread the ground.
But if some hand the tender stalk invades,
Lost is its beauty, and its colour fades:
No more the care of heaven, or garden's boast,
And all its praise with youths and maidens lost.