Eve Left Adam, To Meet The Devil

How Shall I Lose The Sin, Yet Keep The Sense, And Love The Offender, Yet Detest The Offence?

Authors Are Partial To Their Wit, 'tis True, But Are Not Critics To Their Judgment, Too?

The Vulgar Boil, The Learned Roast, An Egg.

Some To Conceit Alone Their Taste Confine, And Glittering Thoughts Struck Out At Ev'ry Line; Pleas'd With A Work Where Nothing's Just Or Fit; One Glaring Chaos And Wild Heap Of Wit.

The Soul's Calm Sunshine, And The Heartfelt Joy.