Nor Fame I Slight, Nor Her Favors

Lo! The Poor Indian! Whose Untutor'd Mind Sees God In Clouds, Or Hears Him In The Wind; His Soul Proud Science Never Taught To Stray Far As The Solar Walk Or Milky Way.

In Lazy Apathy Let Stoics Boast, Their Virtue Fixed, 'tis Fixed As In A Frost.

And All Who Told It Added Something New, And All Who Heard It, Made Enlargements Too.

True Wit Is Nature To Advantage Dressed; What Oft Was Thought, But Ne'er So Well Expressed.

You Beat Your Pate, And Fancy Wit Will Come: Knock As You Please, There's No Body At Home.