So Perish All Who Do The Like

Heaven Gave To Woman The Peculiar Grace To Spin, To Weep, And Cully Human Race.

Where Grows?--where Grows It Not? If Vain Our Toil, We Ought To Blame The Culture, Not The Soil.

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

To Pardon Those Absurdities In Ourselves Which We Cannot Suffer In Others Is Neither Better Nor Worse Than To Be More Willing To Be Fools Ourselves Than To Have Others So.

Worth Makes The Man, And Want Of It The Fellow; The Rest Is All But Leather And Prunello.