We Think Our Fathers Fools,

Such Labour'd Nothings, In So Strange A Style, Amaze Th' Unlearn'd And Make The Learned Smile.

And Little Eagles Wave Their Wings In Gold.

Envy Will Merit, As Its Shade, Pursue

Music Resembles Poetry, In Each Are Nameless Graces Which No Methods Teach, And Which A Master Hand Alone Can Reach.

The Heart Resolves This Matter In A Trice, "men Only Feel The Smart, But Not The Vice.