Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear To

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

What So Pure, Which Envious Tongues Will Spare? Some Wicked Wits Have Libell'd All The Fair, With Matchless Impudence They Style A Wife, The Dear-bought Curse, And Lawful Plague Of Life; A Bosom Serpent, A Domestic Evil, A Night Invasion, And A Mid-day Devil; Let Not The Wise These Sland'rous Words Regard, But Curse The Bones Of Ev'ry Living Bard.

If A Man's Character Is To Be Abused There's Nobody Like A Relative To Do The Business.

To The Elysian Shades Dismiss My Soul, Where No Carnation Fades.

Religion Blushing, Veils Her Sacred Fires, And Unawares Morality Expires.