XXXIX.

Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy, Which, be it Wisdom, Coldness, or deep Pride,[hx] Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled[hy] With a sedate and all-enduring eye;-- When Fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child, He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.