And took for truth the test of ridicule.

Oh, rather give me commentators plain, Who with no deep researches vex the brain; Who from the dark and doubtful love to run, And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun.

Habit with him was all the test of truth; It must be right: I've done it from my youth.

Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain, like other farmers, flourish and complain.

Fears of sinning let in thoughts of sin.

Her air, her manners, all who saw admir'd; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retir'd; The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd.

Let's learn to live, for we must die alone.