Oh, Blindness To The Future! Kindly Giv'n,

To Happy Convents, Bosomed Deep In Vines, Where Slumber Abbots, Purple As Their Wines.

No Creature Smarts So Little As A Fool.

Cursed Be The Verse, How Well So E'er It Flow, That Tends To Make One Worthy Man My Foe.

On Wings Of Wind Came Flying All Abroad.

To Be, Contents His Natural Desire, He Asks No Angel's Wing, No Seraph's Fire; But Thinks, Admitted To That Equal Sky, His Faithful Dog Shall Bear Him Company. Go Wiser Thou! And In Thy Scale Of Sense Weigh Thy Opinion Against Providence.