Why, praise is satire in these sinful days

With the sports of the field there's no pleasure can vie, While jocund we follow our hounds in full cry.

Fond of your freedom spurn the venal fee, And prove he's only great—who dares to be free.

Honour’s a mistress all mankind pursue, Yet most mistake the false one for the true: Lur’d by the trappings, dazzled by the paint, We worship oft the idol for the saint.

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.

What great Effects from slender Causes flow!

So All is diff’rent, and yet All is One.