Or If Virtue Feeble Were, Heav'n Itself

The Never-ending Flight Of Future Days.

Just Deeds Are The Best Answer To Injurious Words.

What Better Can We Do Than Prostrate Fall Before Him Reverent, And There Confess Humbly Our Faults, And Pardon Beg With Tears Watering The Ground?

Our Cure, To Be No More; Sad Cure!

Wherefore Did Nature Pour Her Bounties Forth With Such A Full And Unwithdrawing Hand, Covering The Earth With Odours, Fruits, Flocks, Thronging The Seas With Spawn Innumerable, But All To Please And Sate The Curious Taste?