Ode on a Sermon Against Glory

Come then, tell me, sage divine,
    Is it an offence to own
    That our bosoms e'er incline
    Toward immortal glory's throne?
    For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,
    Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
    So can fancy's dream rejoice,
    So conciliate reason's choice,
As one approving word of her impartial voice.

    If to spurn at noble praise
    Be the pass-port to thy heaven,
    Follow thou those gloomy ways;
    No such law to me was given,
    Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me
    Faring like my friends before me;
    Nor an holier place desire
    Than Timolean's arms acquire,
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.