The Scum That Rises Upmost, When The

Raw In The Fields The Rude Militia Swarms, Mouth Without Hands; Maintained At Vast Expense, In Peace A Charge, In War A Weak Defence.

Set All Things In Their Own Peculiar Place, And Know That Order Is The Greatest Grace.

And He, Who Servilely Creeps After Sense, Is Safe, But Ne'er Will Reach An Excellence.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.

Good Sense And Good-nature Are Never Separated, Though The Ignorant World Has Thought Otherwise. Good-nature, By Which I Mean Beneficence And Candor, Is The Product Of Right Reason.