An Honest Man's The Noblest Work Of

Here Hills And Vales, The Woodland And The Plain Here Earth And Water Seem To Strive Again, Not Chaos-like Together Crushed And Bruised, But, As The World, Harmoniously Confused: Where Order In Variety We See, And Where, Though All Things Differ, All Agree.

One Thought Of Thee Puts All The Pomp To Flight; Priests, Tapers, Temples, Swim Before My Sight.

'tis Not A Lip, Or Eye, We Beauty Call, But The Joint Force And Full Result Of All.

Men Would Be Angels, Angels Would Be Gods.

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.