To Men Pressed By Their Wants All

A Good Poet's Made As Well As Born.

In The Hope To Meet Shortly Again, And Make Our Absence Sweet.

Tis No Sin Love's Fruits To Steal; But The Sweet Thefts To Reveal; To Be Taken, To Be Seen, These Have Crimes Accounted Been.

Nor Shall Our Cups Make Any Guilty Men; But At Our Parting, We Will Be, As When We Innocently Met.

Opinion Is A Light, Vain, Crude, And Imperfect Thing.