Just Are The Ways Of God, And

Earth Felt The Wound; And Nature From Her Seat, Sighing Through All Her Works, Gave Signs Of Woe That All Was Lost.

Ah Gentle Pair, Ye Little Think How Nigh Your Change Approaches, When All These Delights Will Vanish And Deliver Ye To Woe, More Woe, The More Your Taste Is Now Of Joy.

Unless An Age Too Late, Or Cold Climate, Or Years, Damp My Intended Wing.

If All The World Should In A Pet Of Temp'rance, Feed On Pulse, Drink The Clear Stream, And Nothing Wear But Frieze, Th' All-giver Would Be Unthank'd, Would Be Unprais'd.

Such Joy Ambition Finds.