Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead; For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
All nature is but art unknown to thee.
A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind.
Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate.
Who shall decide when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?
Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav'n.