If The Best Man's Faults Were Written

O'er Her Warm Cheek, And Rising Bosom, Move The Bloom Of Young Desire And Purple Light Of Love.

Chill Penury Repress'd Their Noble Rage, And Froze The Genial Current Of The Soul.

Ye Towers Of Julius, London's Lasting Shame, With Many A Foul And Midnight Murder Fed.

To Each His Suff'rings: All Are Men, / Condemn'd Alike To Groan, / The Tender For Another's Pain; / Th' Unfeeling For His Own.

Now As The Paradisiacal Pleasures Of The Mahometans Consist In Playing Upon The Flute And Lying With Houris, Be Mine To Read Eternal New Romances Of Marivaux And Crebillon.