Mankind Is Unamendable.

Whoever Thinks A Faultless Piece To See, Thinks What Ne'er Was, Nor Is, Nor E'er Shall Be, In Every Work Regard The Writer's End, Since None Can Compass More Than They Intend; And If The Means Be Just, The Conduct True, Applause, In Spite Of Trivial Faults, Is Due.

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

Not Always Actions Show The Man; We Find Who Does A Kindness Is Not Therefore Kind.

Interspersed In Lawn And Opening Glades, Thin Trees Arise That Shun Each Others' Shades.

Condition, Circumstance, Is Not The Thing; Bliss Is The Same In Subject Or In King.