Ten Censure Wrong For One Who Writes

Our Passions Are Like Convulsion Fits, Which, Though They Make Us Stronger For A Time, Leave Us The Weaker Ever After.

Where Beams Of Imagination Play, The Memory's Soft Figures Melt Away.

Fair Tresses Man's Imperial Race Ensnare; And Beauty Draws Us With A Single Hair.

She Went From Opera, Park, Assembly, Play, To Morning Walks, And Prayers Three Hours A Day. To Part Her Time 'twixt Reading And Bohea, To Muse, And Spill Her Solitary Tea, Or O'er Cold Coffee Trifle With The Spoon, Count The Slow Clock, And Dine Exact At Noon.

Heaven Breathes Thro' Ev'ry Member Of The Whole One Common Blessing, As One Common Soul.