Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.

Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

So all we know of what they do above, Is that they happy are, and that they love.

So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.

To love is to believe, to hope, to know; Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!

His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.