Ah! Why, Ye Gods, Should Two And

Cavil You May, But Never Criticise.

No Silver Saints, By Dying Misers Giv'n, Here Brib'd The Rage Of Ill-requited Heav'n; But Such Plain Roofs As Piety Could Raise, And Only Vocal With The Maker's Praise.

The Hungry Judges Soon The Sentence Sign, And Wretches Hang That Jurymen May Dine.

Statesman, Yet Friend To Truth! Of Soul Sincere, In Action Faithful, And In Honour Clear; Who Broke No Promise, Serv'd No Private End, Who Gain'd No Title, And Who Lost No Friend.

Who Finds Not Providence All Good And Wise, Alike In What It Gives, And What Denies.