THE Wretch bred up in Method's drowsy school,
Whose only merit is to err by rule,
Who ne'er thro' heat of blood was tripping caught,
Nor guilty deem'd of one eccentric thought,
Whose soul directed to no use is seen
Unless to move the body's dull Machine;
Which, clock-work like, with the same equal pace,
Still travels on thro' life's insipid space,
Turns up his eyes to think that there should be
Among God's creatures too such things as
Then for his night-cap calls, and thanks the pow'rs
Which kindly give him grace to keep