E'en Sunday Shines No Sabbath

Where London's Column, Pointing At The Skies, Like A Tall Bully, Lifts The Head, And Lies.

The Best Way To Prove The Clearness Of Our Mind, Is By Showing Its Faults; As When A Stream Discovers The Dirt At The Bottom, It Convinces Us Of The Transparency And Purity Of The Water.

No Senses Stronger Than His Brain Can Bear. Why Has Not Man A Microscopic Eye? For This Plain Reason, Man Is Not A Fly: What The Advantage, If His Finer Eyes Study A Mite, Not Comprehend The Skies?... Or Quick Effluvia Darting Thro' His Brain, Die Of A Rose, In Aromatic Pain? If Nature Thunder'd In His Opening Ears, And Stunn'd Him With The Music Of The Spheres... Who Finds Not Providence All-good And Wise, Alike In What It Gives, And What Denies?

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

No More Was Seen The Human Form Divine.