The Rigid Saint, By Whom

To Copy Beauty Forfeits All Pretense To Fame; To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense

Whom Drink Made Wits, Though Nature Made Them Fools.

Constant Attention Wears The Active Mind, Blots Out Our Pow'rs, And Leaves A Blank Behind.

Old Age, A Second Child, By Nature Curst With More And Greater Evils Than The First, Weak, Sickly, Full Of Pains: In Ev'ry Breath Railing At Life, And Yet Afraid Of Death.

Enough Of Satire; In Less Harden'd Times Great Was Her Force, And Mighty Were Her Rhymes. I've Read Of Men, Beyond Man's Daring Brave, Who Yet Have Trembled At The Strokes She Gave; Whose Souls Have Felt More Terrible Alarms From Her One Line, Than From A World In Arms.