So Perish All Who Do The Like

Poets Like Painters, Thus Unskilled To Trace The Naked Nature And The Living Grace, With Gold And Jewels Cover Ev'ry Part, And Hide With Ornaments Their Want Of Art. True Wit Is Nature To Advantage Dressed, What Oft Was Thought, But Ne'er So Well Expressed.

With Sharpen'd Sight Pale Antiquaries Pore, Th' Inscription Value, But The Rust Adore. This The Blue Varnish, That The Green Endears; The Sacred Rust Of Twice Ten Hundred Years.

But Thinks, Admitted To That Equal Sky, His Faithful Dog Shall Bear Him Company.

To Rest, The Cushion And Soft Dean Invite, Who Never Mentions Hell To Ears Polite.

Lo, What Huge Heaps Of Littleness Around!