Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.

Be silent always when you doubt your sense.

The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy.

Dear, damned, distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease: This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!

Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.

Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.

For critics, as they are birds of prey, have ever a natural inclination to carrion.