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 For ev'n the soul not always holds the same, But knows at different times, a diff'rent frame. Whether with rolling seasons she complies, Turns with the sun, or changes with the skies. Or thro' long toil, remissive of her fires, Droops with the mortal frame her force inspires. Or that our minds alternately appear Now bright with joy, and now o'er-cast with care. The gods, the gods much rather must supply The glorious fires; they speak the deity. Then blest is he who waits th' auspicious nod, The warmth divine, and presence of the god; Who his suspended labours can restrain, 'Till heav'nsheaven's [sic] serene indulgence smilesmiles [sic] again. But strive, on no pretence, against your pow'r, 'Till time brings back the voluntary hour. Sometimes their verdant honours leave the woods, And their dry urns defraud the thirsty floods; Nor rivers always a full channel yield, Nor spring with flow'ry beauties paints the field; The bards no less such fickle changes find, Dampt is the noble ardor of the mind; Their