The Good Must Merit God's Peculiar Care;

And Write About It, Goddess, And About It!

Oh! If To Dance All Night, And Dress All Day, Charm'd The Small-pox, Or Chas'd Old Age Away; . . . . To Patch, Nay Ogle, Might Become A Saint, Nor Could It Sure Be Such A Sin To Paint.

Interspersed In Lawn And Opening Glades, Thin Trees Arise That Shun Each Others' Shades.

And Binding Nature Fast In Fate, Left Free The Human Will.

Ten Censure Wrong For One Who Writes Amiss.