What joy, what pleasing transport, must arise
Within your breast, and lift you to the skies,
When, in each learned page that you unfold,
You find some part of your own conduct told!
So pleas'd, and so surpris'd, AEneas stood,
And such triumphant raptures fir'd his blood,
When far from Trojan shores the hero spied
His story shining forth in all its pride;
Admir'd himself, and saw his actions stand
The praise and wonder of a foreign land.
He knows not half his being, who's confin'd
In converse, and reflection on mankind:
Your soul, which understands her charter well,
Disdains imprison'd by those skies to dwell;
Ranges eternity without the leave
Of death, nor waits the passage of the grave.
When pains eternal, and eternal bliss,
When these high cares your weary thoughts dismiss,
In heavenly numbers you your soul unbend,
And for your ease to deathless fame descend.
Ye kings! would ye true greatness understand,
Read Seneca grown rich in Granville's hand.
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