And Empty Heads Console With

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.

And More Than Echoes Talk Along The Walls.

True Self-love And Social Are The Same.

Ye Gods, Annihilate But Space And Time, And Make Two Lovers Happy.

That Virtue Only Makes Our Bliss Below, And All Our Knowledge Is Ourselves To Know.