Now I see Peace to corrupt no less than war to waste.
Herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground.
Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
For so I created them free and free they must remain.
Ah, why should all mankind For one man's fault, be condemned, If guiltless?