We Think Our Fathers Fools,

Charm Strikes The Sight, But Merit Wins The Soul.

Sometimes Virtue Starves While Vice Is Fed.

As Some To Church Repair, Not For The Doctrine, But The Music There.

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

See! From The Brake The Whirring Pheasant Springs, And Mounts Exulting On Triumphant Wings; Short Is His Joy! He Feels The Fiery Wound, Flutters In Blood, And Panting Beats The Ground.