Who, As They Sung, Would Take The

Demoniac Frenzy, Moping Melancholy.

Execute Their Airy Purposes.

Tower'd Cities Please Us Then, And The Busy Hum Of Men.

Extol Not Riches Then, The Toil Of Fools, The Wise Man's Cumbrance, If Not Snare, More Apt To Slacken Virtue, And Abate Her Edge, Than Prompt Her To Do Aught May Merit Praise.

The Earth, Though In Comparison Of Heaven So Small, Nor Glistering, May Of Solid Good Contain More Plenty Than The Sun, That Barren Shines.