I feel the Sparks of my old Flame revive. - John Ogilby

Why com'st thou like a girl with blubber'd eyes,
Who running by her busie mother cries
To be ta'en up, and by her garments holds,
Till she the fondling in her arms infolds.

Ah! much those ancient heroes were of old
As patterns of benignity extoll'd:
Whom, though their bosoms did with anger boil;
Rich gifts and softer words would reconcile.

Fame far out-strips all Mischiefs in her course,
Which grows by Motion, gains, by flying, Force;
Kept under first by Fear, soon after shrouds,
Stalking or Earth, her Head amongst the Clouds.