Calm, Thinking Villains, Whom No Faith Could

Let Opening Roses Knotted Oaks Adorn, And Liquid Amber Drop From Every Thorn.

Some To Conceit Alone Their Taste Confine, And Glittering Thoughts Struck Out At Ev'ry Line; Pleas'd With A Work Where Nothing's Just Or Fit; One Glaring Chaos And Wild Heap Of Wit.

What Some Call Health, If Purchased By Perpetual Anxiety About Diet, Isn't Much Better Than Tedious Disease.

To Be, Contents His Natural Desire, He Asks No Angel's Wing, No Seraph's Fire; But Thinks, Admitted To That Equal Sky, His Faithful Dog Shall Bear Him Company. Go Wiser Thou! And In Thy Scale Of Sense Weigh Thy Opinion Against Providence.

But To The World No Bugbear Is So Great, As Want Of Figure And A Small Estate.