“ Say, ill-used orb, who, in most gen’rous mood,
Hast often given these traitor clouds attire
Of roseate hue, superbly fringed with gold,
Canst thou fresh honours on the rebels fling?
Wilt thou again recline thy weary head,
In summer eve, on their ungrateful breasts,
And fondly kiss them with thy ruddy lips?
And ye, sweet, blue-eyed, even-temper’d skies,
That look so happy all the sunlit hours,
And in the night wear such a tranquil face,
When moon and stars hang up their shining lamps,
When shall we see you? Peevish clouds, begone! ”