Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman is at heart a rake.
To err is human; to forgive, divine.
Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
Cursed be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe.
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's God.