Religion! What Treasure Untold Resides In That

Time, As He Passes Us, Has A Dove's Wing, Unsoil'd, And Swift, And Of A Silken Sound.

I Was A Poet Too; But Modern Taste Is So Refined And Delicate And Chaste, That Verse, Whatever Fire The Fancy Warms, Without A Creamy Smoothness Has No Charms. Thus, All Success Depending On An Ear, And Thinking I Might Purchase It Too Dear, If Sentiment Were Sacrific'd To Sound, And Truth Cut Short To Make A Period Round, I Judg'd A Man Of Sense Could Scarce Do Worse Than Caper In The Morris-dance Of Verse.

No Tree In All The Grove But Has Its Charms, Though Each Its Hue Peculiar.

Pleasure Admitted In Undue Degree, Enslaves The Will, Nor Leaves The Judgment Free.

But What Is Truth? 'twas Pilate's Question Put To Truth Itself, That Deign'd Him No Reply.