O thou whose pow'r o'er moving worlds presides

O thou whose pow'r o'er moving worlds presides,
Whose voice created, and whose wisdom guides,
On darkling man in pure effulgence shine,
And chear the clouded mind with light divine.
'Tis thine alone to calm the pious breast
With silent confidence and holy rest:
From thee, great God, we spring, to thee we tend,
Path, motive, guide, original, and end.

To the Same

Writing thyself, or judging others' writ,
I know not which thou hast most, candour, or wit:
But both thou hast so, as who affects the state
Of the best writer, and judge, should emulate.

To Playwright

Playwright me reads, and still my verses damns,
He says, I want the tongue of epigrams;
I have no salt: no bawdry he doth mean.
For witty, in his language, is obscene.
Playwright, I loathe to have thy manners known
In my chaste book: profess them in thine own.

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