That Music In Itself, Whose Sounds Are

Such Partings Break The Heart They Fondly Hope To Heal.

History, With All Her Volumes Vast, Hath But One Page.

Man Is In Part Divine, A Troubled Stream From A Pure Source.

Not To Admire, Is All The Art I Know To Make Men Happy, Or To Keep Them So. Thus Horace Wrote We All Know Long Ago; And Thus Pope Quotes The Precept To Re-teach From His Translation; But Had None Admired, Would Pope Have Sung, Or Horace Been Inspired?

Now What I Love In Women Is, They Won't Or Can't Do Otherwise Than Lie, But Do It. So Well, The Very Truth Seems Falsehood To It.