I Am Satisfied To Trifle Away My

Ten Censure Wrong For One Who Writes Amiss.

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

Let Opening Roses Knotted Oaks Adorn, And Liquid Amber Drop From Every Thorn.

Beauty That Shocks You, Parts That None Will Trust, Wit That Can Creep, And Pride That Licks The Dust.

What Conscience Dictates To Be Done, Or Warns Me Not To Do; This Teach Me More Than Hell To Shun, That More Than Heav'n Pursue.