Ten Censure Wrong For One Who Writes

Behold The Child, By Nature's Kindly Law, Pleased With A Rattle, Tickled With A Straw; Some Livelier Plaything Gives His Youth Delight, A Little Louder, But As Empty Quite; Scarfs, Garters, Gold, Amuse His Riper Stage, And Beads And Prayer-books Are The Toys Of Age. Pleased With This Bauble Still, As That Before, Till Tired He Sleeps, And Life's Poor Play Is O'er.

All Are But Parts Of One Stupendous Whole, Whose Body Nature Is, And God The Soul.

A Generous Friendship No Cold Medium Knows, Burns With One Love, With One Resentment Glows.

For What I Have Publish'd, I Can Only Hope To Be Pardon'd; But For What I Have Burned, I Deserve To Be Prais'd.

Fondly We Think We Honor Merit Then, When We But Praise Ourselves In Other Men.