Nor didst thou to thy Foes less generous appear,
(If there were any durst that Title wear.)
They could not offer Wrongs so fast,
But what were pardon'd with like haste;
And by thy acts of Amnesty defac't.
Had he who wish'd the Art how to forget,
Discover'd its new Worth in thee,
He had a double Value on it set,
And justly scorn'd th'ignobler Art of Memory.
No Wrongs could thy great Soul to Grief expose,
'Twas plac't as much out of the reach of those,
As of material Blows.
No Injuries could thee provoke,
Thy Softness always dampt the stroke:
As Flints on Feather-beds are easiest broke.
Affronts could ne'er thy cool Complexion heat,
Or chase thy temper from its setled State:
But still thou stoodst unshockt by all,
As if thou hadst unlearnt the Power to hate,
Or, like the Dove, wert born without a Gall.