To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense.

Who All In Raptures Their Own Works Rehearse, And Drawl Out Measur'd Prose, Which They Call Verse.

Constant Attention Wears The Active Mind, Blots Out Our Pow'rs, And Leaves A Blank Behind.

Childhood, Who Like An April Morn Appears, Sunshine And Rain, Hopes Clouded O'er With Fears.

Weak Is That Throne, And In Itself Unsound, Which Takes Not Solid Virtue For Its Ground.

Fashion--a Word Which Knaves And Fools May Use, Their Knavery And Folly To Excuse.