All Nature Is But Art Unknown To

Hear How The Birds, On Ev'ry Blooming Spray, With Joyous Musick Wake The Dawning Day.

Satire's My Weapon, But I'm Too Discreet To Run Amuck, And Tilt At All I Meet.

A Wise Physician, Skill'd Our Wounds To Heal, Is More Than Armies To The Public Weal.

Leave Not A Foot Of Verse, A Foot Of Stone, A Page, A Grave, That They Can Call Their Own; But Spread, My Sons, Your Glory Thin Or Thick, On Passive Paper, Or On Solid Brick.

So Man, Who Here Seems Principal Alone, Perhaps Acts Second To Some Sphere Unknown Touches Some Wheel, Or Verges To Some Goal; 'tis But A Part We See, And Not A Whole.