I Am Out Of Humanity's

[my Kitten's] Gambols Are Not To Be Described, And Would Be Incredible, If They Could.

Those Flimsy Webs That Break As Soon As Wrought, Attain Not To The Dignity Of Thought.

Unless A Love Of Virtue Light The Flame, Satire Is, More Than Those He Brands, To Blame; He Hides Behind A Magisterial Air He Own Offences, And Strips Others' Bare.

The Man To Solitude Accustom'd Long, Perceives In Everything That Lives A Tongue; Not Animals Alone, But Shrubs And Trees Have Speech For Him, And Understood With Ease, After Long Drought When Rains Abundant Fall, He Hears The Herbs And Flowers Rejoicing All.

And The Tear That Is Wiped With A Little Address, May Be Follow'd Perhaps By A Smile.