Whate'er The Talents, Or Howe'er Designed, We

Monuments, Like Men, Submit To Fate.

And You, My Critics! In The Chequer'd Shade, Admire New Light Thro' Holes Yourselves Have Made.

Sometimes Virtue Starves While Vice Is Fed.

Therefore They Who Say Our Thoughts Are Not Our Own Because They Resemble The Ancients, May As Well Say Our Faces Are Not Our Own, Because They Are Like Our Fathers: And Indeed It Is Very Unreasonable, That People Should Expect Us To Be Scholars, And Yet Be Angry To Find Us So.

Whether The Charmer Sinner It, Or Saint It, If Folly Grow Romantic, I Must Paint It.