Is It, In Heav'n, A Crime To

What Nature Wants, Commodious Gold Bestows; 'tis Thus We Cut The Bread Another Sows.

The Villain's Censure Is Extorted Praise.

I Was Not Born For Courts And Great Affairs, But I Pay My Debts, Believe And Say My Prayers.

There Is Nothing That Is Meritorious But Virtue And Friendship.

Soft Is The Strain When Zephyr Gently Blows, And The Smooth Stream In Smoother Numbers Flows; But When Loud Surges Lash The Sounding Shore, The Hoarse Rough Verse Should Like The Torrent Roar. When Ajax Strives Some Rock's Vast Weight To Throw, The Line Too Labours, And The Words Move Slow: Not So When Swift Camilla Scours The Plain, Flies O'er Th' Unbending Corn, And Skims Along The Main.