Whom Drink Made Wits, Though Nature Made

The Rigid Saint, By Whom No Mercy's Shown To Saints Whose Lives Are Better Than His Own.

Nor Waste Their Sweetness In The Desert Air.

A Servile Race Who, In Mere Want Of Fault, All Merit Place; Who Blind Obedience Pay To Ancient Schools, Bigots To Greece, And Slaves To Musty Rules.

Wherever Waves Can Roll, And Winds Can Blow.

The Scots Are Poor, Cries Surly English Pride; True Is The Charge, Nor By Themselves Denied. Are They Not Then In Strictest Reason Clear, Who Wisely Come To Mend Their Fortunes Here?