When Much Dispute Has Past, We Find

Heav'n First Taught Letters For Some Wretch's Aid, Some Banish'd Lover, Or Some Captive Maid.

To Happy Convents, Bosomed Deep In Vines, Where Slumber Abbots, Purple As Their Wines.

Fine Sense And Exalted Sense Are Not Half So Useful As Common Sense.

For Forms Of Faith Let Graceless Zealots Fight; His Can't Be Wrong Whose Life Is In The Right.

Tis Use Alone That Sanctifies Expense And Splendor Borrow All Her Rays From Sense.