The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.

So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.

The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.

The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!