Only Music Has The Ability

And Each Blasphemer Quite Escape The Rod, Because The Insult's Not On Man, But God?

Pretty! In Amber To Observe The Forms Of Hairs, Of Straws, Or Dirt, Or Grubs, Or Worms! The Things, We Know, Are Neither Rich Nor Rare, But Wonder How The Devil They Got There.

All Nature Mourns, The Skies Relent In Showers; Hushed Are The Birds, And Closed The Drooping Flowers.

Giving Advice Is Many Times Only The Privilege Of Saying A Foolish Thing One's Self, Under The Pretense Of Hindering Another From Doing One.

Dulness! Whose Good Old Cause I Yet Defend, With Whom My Muse Began, With Who Shall End.