A perfect judge will read each work of wit With the same spirit that its author writ - Alexander Pope

Proud Nimrod first the bloody chase began A mighty hunter, and his prey was man.

Those half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our isle
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile

Love taught my tears in sadder notes to flow,
And tuned my heart to elegies of woe.
I burn, I burn, as when thro’ ripen’d corn
By driving winds the spreading flames are borne!
...
No more my soul a charm in music finds;
Music has charms alone for peaceful minds.
Soft scenes of solitude no more can please;
Love enters there, and I ‘m my own disease.