A Wise Physician, Skill'd Our Wounds To

To Rest, The Cushion And Soft Dean Invite, Who Never Mentions Hell To Ears Polite.

No Louder Shrieks To Pitying Heaven Are Cast, When Husbands Or Lap-dogs Breathe Their Last.

You Eat, In Dreams, The Custard Of The Day.

So Man, Who Here Seems Principal Alone, Perhaps Acts Second To Some Sphere Unknown Touches Some Wheel, Or Verges To Some Goal; 'tis But A Part We See, And Not A Whole.

Envy Will Merit, As Its Shade, Pursue