The shrill echoes ring amidst the skies. - Christopher Pitt

To all, proportioned terms he must dispense, And make the sound a picture of the sense.

Nor would I scruple, with a due regard, To read sometimes a rude unpolished bard, Among whose labours I may find a line Which from unsightly rust I may refine, And, with a better grace, adopt it into mine.

Smooth lies the road to Pluto's gloomy shade, And hell's black gates for ever stand displayed, But 'tis a long unconquerable pain, To climb to these ethereal realms again.