Why Did I Write? What

As With Narrow-necked Bottles; The Less They Have In Them, The More Noise They Make In Pouring Out.

How Shall I Lose The Sin, Yet Keep The Sense, And Love The Offender, Yet Detest The Offence?

Speed The Soft Intercourse From Soul To Soul, And Waft A Sigh From Indus To The Pole.

I Lisp'd In Numbers, For The Numbers Came.

Authors Are Partial To Their Wit, 'tis True, But Are Not Critics To Their Judgment, Too?