Order is Heaven's first law; and this confessed, some are, and must be, greater than the rest, more rich, more wise; but who infers from hence that such are happier, shocks all common sense. Condition, circumstance, is not the thing; bliss is the same in subject or in king.

What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!

Where beams of imagination play, the memory's soft figures melt away.

They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake.

Nor Fame I slight, nor her favors call.

A wise physician, skill'd our wounds to heal, is more than armies to the public weal.

O peace! how many wars were waged in thy name.