A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

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

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

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.

What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?

All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.