Dulness! Whose Good Old Cause I Yet

Behold The Groves That Shine With Silver Frost, Their Beauty Withered, And Their Verdure Lost!

Virtue May Choose The High Or Low Degree, 'tis Just Alike To Virtue, And To Me; Dwell In A Monk, Or Light Upon A King, She's Still The Same Belov'd, Contented Thing.

Then From The Mint Walks Forth The Man Of Rhyme, Happy To Catch Me, Just At Dinner-time.

The Worst Of Madmen Is A Saint Run Mad.

Order Is Heaven's First Law.