No louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands or lap-dogs breathe their last.
One science only will one genius fit; so vast is art, so narrow human wit.
And make each day a critic on the last.
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot? The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see Men not afraid of God, afraid of me.
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.