Truth Is The Object Of Our Understanding,

Doeg, Though Without Knowing How Or Why, Made Still A Blundering Kind Of Melody; Spurr'd Boldly On, And Dash'd Through Thick And Thin, Through Sense And Nonsense, Never Out Nor In; Free From All Meaning Whether Good Or Bad, And In One Word, Heroically Mad.

Old As I Am, For Ladies' Love Unfit, The Power Of Beauty I Remember Yet.

For Thee, Sweet Month; The Groves Green Liveries Wear. If Not The First, The Fairest Of The Year; For Thee The Graces Lead The Dancing Hours, And Nature's Ready Pencil Paints The Flowers. When Thy Short Reign Is Past, The Feverish Sun The Sultry Tropic Fears, And Moves More Slowly On.

Bets At First Were Fool-traps, Where The Wise Like Spiders Lay In Ambush For The Flies.

Could Swell The Soul To Rage, Or Kindle Soft Desire.