Is There No Bright Reversion In The

Good Sense, Which Only Is The Gift Of Heaven, And Though No Science, Fairly Worth The Seven.

To The Elysian Shades Dismiss My Soul, Where No Carnation Fades.

But Would You Sing, And Rival Orpheus' Strain. The Wond'ring Forests Soon Should Dance Again; The Moving Mountains Hear The Powerful Call. And Headlong Streams Hand Listening In Their Fall!

Modest Plainness Sets Off Sprightly Wit, For Works May Have More With Than Does 'em Good, As Bodies Perish Through Excess Of Blood.

Age And Want Sit Smiling At The Gate.