Thursday, 14th January, 2010

But She—who shrinks while meditating Flight
In the wide Way, whose Bounds delude her Sight,
Yet tir’d in her own Mazes still to roam
And cull poor Banquets for the Soul at home,
Would, ere she ventures, ponder on the Way,
Left Dangers yet unthought-of Flight betray;
Left her Icarian Wing, by Wits unplum’d,
Be robb’d of all the Honours she assum’d;
And Dullness swell; a black and dismal Sea
Gaping her Grave; while Censures madden me.

George Crabbe, from The Candidate

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