Religion blushing, veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires.
Fly, dotard, fly! With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.
Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?
The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy.
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes: the glorious fault of angels and of gods.
I believe no one qualification is so likely to make a good writer, as the power of rejecting his own thoughts.