Taste, That Eternal Wanderer, Which Flies From

Rogues In Rags Are Kept In Countenance By Rogues In Ruffles.

The Flower's Are Gone When The Fruits Appear To Ripen.

Ask For What End The Heavenly Bodies Shine, Earth For Whose Use? Pride Answers, 'tis For Mine For Me Kind Nature Wakes Her Genial Power, Suckles Each Herb, And Spreads Out Every Flower.

The Ruling Passion, Be It What It Will. The Ruling Passion Conquers Reason Still.

But Touch Me, And No Minister So Sore. Whoe'er Offends, At Some Unlucky Time Slides Into Verse, And Hitches In A Rhyme, Sacred To Ridicule His Whole Life Long, And The Sad Burthen Of Some Merry Song.