How Low, How Little Are The Proud,

Rich With The Spoils Of Time.

When Love Could Teach A Monarch To Be Wise, And Gospel-light First Dawn'd From Bullen's Eyes.

The Hues Of Bliss More Brightly Glow, Chastis'd By Sabler Tints Of Woe.

Not All That Tempts Your Wandering Eyes And Heedless Hearts, Is Lawful Prize; Nor All That Glisters Gold.

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.