Of Manners Gentle, Of Affections Mild; In

I As Little Fear That God Will Damn A Man That Has Charity, As I Hope That The Priests Can Save One Who Has Not.

Envy, To Which Th' Ignoble Mind's A Slave, Is Emulation In The Learn'd Or Brave.

To Wake The Soul By Tender Strokes Of Art, To Raise The Genius, And To Mend The Heart; To Make Mankind, In Conscious Virtue Bold, Live O'er Each Seene, And Be What They Behold: For This The Tragic Muse First Trod The Stage.

The Spider's Touch, How Exquisitely Fine! Feels At Each Thread, And Lives Along The Line.

To Him No High, No Low, No Great, No Small; He Fills, He Bounds, Connects And Equals All!