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

For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.

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

Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.

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

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.