Whose calm soul in a settled state
Kicks under foot the frowns of Fate,
And in his fortunes, bad or good,
Keeps the same temper in his blood;
Not him the flaming clouds above,
Nor Aetna's fiery tempests move;
No fretting seas from shore to shore,
Boiling with indignation o'er,
Nor burning thunderbolt that can
A mountain shake, can stir this man.
Dull cowards then! why should we start
To see these tyrants act their part?
Nor hope, nor fear what may befall,
And you disarm their malice all.
But who doth faintly fear or wish,
And sets no law to what is his,
Hath lost the buckler, and—poor elf!—
Makes up a chain to bind himself.