Is It, In Heav'n, A Crime To

Virtue, I Grant You, Is An Empty Boast; But Shall The Dignity Of Vice Be Lost?

Dear Fatal Name! Rest Ever Unreveal'd, Nor Pass These Lips In Holy Silence Seal'd. Hide It, My Heart, Within That Close Disguise, Where Mixed With Gods, His Lov'd Idea Lies: O Write It Not, My Hand - The Name Appears Already Written - Wash It Out, My Tears! In Vain Lost Eloisa Weeps And Prays, Her Heart Still Dictates, And Her Hand Obeyes.

Of Darkness Visible So Much Be Lent, As Half To Show, Half Veil, The Deep Intent.

But Touch Me, And No Minister So Sore. Whoe'er Offends, At Some Unlucky Time Slides Into Verse, And Hitches In A Rhyme, Sacred To Ridicule His Whole Life Long, And The Sad Burthen Of Some Merry Song.

Our Judgments, Like Our Watches, None Go Just Alike, Yet Each Believes His Own