So Perish All Who Do The Like

The Lamb Thy Riot Dooms To Bleed Today, Had He Thy Reason, Would He Skip And Play? Pleas'd To The Last He Crops The Flow'ry Food, And Licks The Hand Just Rais'd To Shed His Blood.

In Adamantine Chains Shall Death Be Bound, And Hell's Grim Tyrant Feel Th' Eternal Wound.

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.

The Mouse That Always Trusts To One Poor Hole Can Never Be A Mouse Of Any Soul.

Pleased To The Last, He Crops The Flowery Food, And Licks The Hand Just Raised To Shed His Blood.