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.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.