If I Am Right, Thy Grace Impart

The Zeal Of Fools Offends At Any Time.

A Man Of Business May Talk Of Philosophy; A Man Who Has None May Practice It.

Say, Will The Falcon, Stooping From Above, Smit With Her Varying Plumage, Spare The Dove? Admires The Jay The Insect's Gilded Wings? Or Hears The Hawk When Philomela Sings?

In Every Work Regard The Writer's End, Since None Can Compass More Than They Intend.

The Meeting Points The Sacred Hair Dissever From The Fair Head, Forever, And Forever! Then Flashed The Living Lightning From Her Eyes, And Screams Of Horror Rend Th' Affrighted Skies.