A Servile Race Who, In Mere Want

Who, With Tame Cowardice Familiar Grown, Would Hear My Thoughts, But Fear To Speak Their Own.

Nature, Through All Her Works, In Great Degree, Borrows A Blessing From Variety. Music Itself Her Needful Aid Requires To Rouse The Soul, And Wake Our Dying Fires.

No Two On Earth In All Things Can Agree; All Have Some Darling Singularity; Women And Men, As Well As Girls And Boys, In Gewgaws Take Delight, And Sigh For Toys, Your Sceptres And Your Crowns, And Such Like Things, Are But A Better Kind Of Toys For Kings. In Things Indifferent Reason Bids Us Choose, Whether The Whim's A Monkey Or A Muse.

With That Malignant Envy Which Turns Pale, And Sickens, Even If A Friend Prevail.

Who Shall Dispute What The Reviewers Say? Their Word's Sufficient; And To Ask A Reason, In Such A State As Theirs, Is Downright Treason.