To some the world is but a ragged screen,
Hiding the essence of eternal fire;
They tear its tatters, and would peep between;
The unknown is lovely, and the rest is mire.
And other some glory in Nature’s robe,
Dare scorn ideal monsters of the mind,
Where man would test the heart with his nice probe,
Suit his sick taste, and leave the rest behind;
And some are drunken of they know not what,
And cull what sweets may hang from every hour,
Nor hope, nor pause, but magnify the sot;
Know not the weed, or train it as their flower.
Let these rejoice, yet happier, by far,
The silly brutes, that gorge at pleasure, are.