What Reason Weaves, By Passion Is Undone.

Oh! If To Dance All Night, And Dress All Day, Charm'd The Small-pox, Or Chas'd Old Age Away; . . . . To Patch, Nay Ogle, Might Become A Saint, Nor Could It Sure Be Such A Sin To Paint.

But Touch Me, And No Minister So Sore. Whoe'er Offends, At Some Unlucky Time Slides Into Verse, And Hitches In A Rhyme, Sacred To Ridicule His Whole Life Long, And The Sad Burthen Of Some Merry Song.

Heav'n From All Creatures Hides The Book Of Fate, All But The Page Prescribed, Their Present State: From Brutes What Men, From Men What Spirits Know: Or Who Could Suffer Being Here Below?

I Find Myself Hoping A Total End Of All The Unhappy Divisions Of Mankind By Party-spirit, Which At Best Is But The Madness Of Many For The Gain Of A Few.

Chaste To Her Husband, Frank To All Beside, A Teeming Mistress, But A Barren Bride.