Whoever Thinks A Faultless Piece To See,

The Sound Must Seem An Echo To The Sense.

Good-nature And Good-sense Must Ever Join; To Err Is Human, To Forgive, Divine.

Nature Made Every Fop To Plague His Brother, Just As One Beauty Mortifies Another.

The Approach Of Night The Skies Yet Blushing With Departing Light, When Falling Dews With Spangles Deck'd The Glade, And The Low Sun Had Lengthen'd Ev'ry Shade.

And Seem To Walk On Wings, And Tread In Air.