Birth

Didst thou ne'er read, in difference of good, 'Tis more to shine in virtue than in blood?

Birth is a shadow. Courage, self-sustain'd, Out-lords succession's phlegm—and needs no ancestors. I am above descent; and prize no blood.

Among the titled great ones of the world, Do they not spring from some proud monarch's flatterer, Some favorite mistress, or ambitious minister, The ruin of his country, while their blood Rolls down thro' many a fool, thro' many a villain, To its now proud possessors?

* * * * * * * * Thy birth? Did I not early teach thee to despise A casual good? Thou art thyself, Ilyssus. Inform me, youth, would'st thou be what thou art Thus fair, thus brave, thus sensibly alive To glory's finest feel; or give up all To be descended from a line of kings, The tenth perhaps from Jove?—I see thy cheek Glows a repentant blush.—Our greatest heroes, Who've been on earth, the friends of human-kind, Whose great examples I would set before thee, Were once unknown like thee.—

—Who first the catalogue shall grace? To quality belongs the highest place. My lord comes forward; forward let him come! Ye vulgar! at your peril give him room; He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet, By heraldry prov'd valiant or discreet. With what a decent pride he throws his eyes Above the man by three descents less wise! It virtues at his noble hand you crave, You bid him raise his fathers from the grave. Men should press forward in fame's glorious chase: Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Let high birth triumph! What can be more great? Nothing—but merit in a low estate. To virtue's humblest son let none prefer Vice, tho' descended from the conqueror. Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base, Slight or important, only by their place? Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title, lies.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge, Produce their debt, instead of their discharge. *****, let those who proudly boast their line, Like thee, in worth hereditary shine.