It Can't Be Nature, For It Is

Little Do Such Men Know The Toil, The Pains, The Daily, Nightly Racking Of The Brains, To Range The Thoughts, The Matter To Digest, To Cull Fit Phrases, And Reject The Rest.

To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense.

Men The Most Infamous Are Fond Of Fame, And Those Who Fear Not Guilt Yet Start At Shame.

The Best Things Carried To Excess Are Wrong.

Nature, Through All Her Works, In Great Degree, Borrows A Blessing From Variety. Music Itself Her Needful Aid Requires To Rouse The Soul, And Wake Our Dying Fires.