Pity! Religion Has So Seldom Found A

Those Flimsy Webs That Break As Soon As Wrought, Attain Not To The Dignity Of Thought.

Ten Thousand Casks, Forever Dribbling Out Their Base Contents, Touch'd By The Midas Finger Of The State, Bleed Gold For Ministers To Sport Away. Drink, And Be Mad Then; 'tis Your Country Bids!

When From Soft Love Proceeds The Deep Distress, Ah! Why Forbid The Willing Tears To Flow?

I Pity Bashful Men, Who Feel The Pain Of Fancied Scorn And Undeserved Disdain, And Bear The Marks Upon A Blushing Face, Of Needless Shame, And Self-impos'd Disgrace.

O, Popular Applause! What Heart Of Man Is Proof Against Thy Sweet, Seducing Charms?