By Flatterers Besieged And So Obliging That

Whatever Is, Is Right.

Know Then, Unnumber'd Spirits Round Thee Fly, The Light Militia Of The Lower Sky.

Beauties In Vain Their Pretty Eyes May Roll; Charms Strike The Sight, But Merit Wins The Soul.

Behold The Child, By Nature's Kindly Law Pleased With A Rattle, Tickled With A Straw.

He Best Can Paint Them Who Shall Feel Them Most.