By flatterers besieged And so obliging that he ne'er obliged.

Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice - A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.

Lo! The poor Indian, whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

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.

Here am I, dying of a hundred good symptoms.

The most positive men are the most credulous.