Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain; awake but one, and in, what myriads rise!

But Satan now is wiser than of yore, and tempts by making rich, not making poor.

Dogs, ye have had your day!

Who dare to love their country, and be poor.

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.

Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame, Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame, Averse alike to flatter or offend, Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.

There is nothing wanting to make all rational and disinterested people in the world of one religion, but that they should talk together every day.