Ah! Why, Ye Gods, Should Two And

Ah! What Avails It Me The Flocks To Keep, Who Lost My Heart While I Preserv'd My Sheep.

Where Beams Of Imagination Play, The Memory's Soft Figures Melt Away.

And Each Blasphemer Quite Escape The Rod, Because The Insult's Not On Man, But God?

Whether With Reason, Or With Instinct Blest, Know, All Enjoy That Pow'r Which Suits Them Best.

For What I Have Publish'd, I Can Only Hope To Be Pardon'd; But For What I Have Burned, I Deserve To Be Prais'd.