All Seems Infected That Th' Infected Spy,

Is There No Bright Reversion In The Sky, For Those Who Greatly Think Or Bravely Die?

What Woeful Stuff This Madrigal Would Be, In Some Starved Hackney Sonneteer, Or Me! But Let A Lord Once Own The Happy Lines, How The Wit Brightens! How The Style Refines!

A Generous Friendship No Cold Medium Knows, Burns With One Love, With One Resentment Glows.

Our Rural Ancestors, With Little Blest, Patient Of Labor When The End Was Rest, Indulged The Day That Housed Their Annual Grain, With Feasts, And Off'rings, And A Thankful Strain.

From The Moment One Sets Up For An Author, One Must Be Treated As Ceremoniously, That Is As Unfaithfully, "as A King's Favorite Or A King.