As The Twig Is Bent, So Grows

Pleasure, Or Wrong Or Rightly Understood, Our Greatest Evil, Or Our Greatest Good.

Party-spirit At Best Is But The Madness Of Many For The Gain Of A Few.

At Every Trifle Take Offense, That Always Shows Great Pride Or Little Sense.

What Woeful Stuff This Madrigal Would Be, In Some Starved Hackney Sonneteer, Or Me! But Let A Lord Once Own The Happy Lines, How The Wit Brightens! How The Style Refines!

Of Darkness Visible So Much Be Lent, As Half To Show, Half Veil, The Deep Intent.