Is It, In Heav'n, A

When To Mischief Mortals Bend Their Will, How Soon They Find It Instruments Of Ill.

Religion Blushing, Veils Her Sacred Fires, And Unawares Morality Expires.

Is Pride, The Never-failing Vice Of Fools.

Whether The Darken'd Room To Muse Invite, Or Whiten'd Wall Provoke The Skew'r To Write; In Durance, Exile, Bedlam, Or The Mint, Like Lee Or Budgel I Will Rhyme And Print.

Fly, Dotard, Fly! With Thy Wise Dreams And Fables Of The Sky.