Resolved To Ruin Or To Rule The

Imitators Are But A Servile Kind Of Cattle.

Thou Spring'st A Leak Already In Thy Crown, A Flaw Is In Thy Ill-bak'd Vessel Found; 'tis Hollow, And Returns A Jarring Sound, Yet Thy Moist Clay Is Pliant To Command, Unwrought, And Easy To The Potter's Hand: Now Take The Mould; Now Bend Thy Mind To Feel The First Sharp Motions Of The Forming Wheel.

Welcome, Thou Kind Deceiver! Thou Best Of Thieves; Who, With An Easy Key, Dost Open Life, And, Unperceived By Us, Even Steal Us From Ourselves.

For Lawful Power Is Still Superior Found, When Long Driven Back, At Length It Stands The Ground.

The Good We Have Enjoyed From Heaven's Free Will, And Shall We Murmur To Endure The Ill?