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

On life's vast ocean diversely we sail, Reason the card, but passion is the gale; Nor God alone in the still calm we find, He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind.

While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.

They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake.

The bookful blockhead ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails.

Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?

Know then this truth, enough for man to know virtue alone is happiness below.