XVI

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XVI

Oh! where bestow our love? Whom trust?

Where is he who doth not deceive?

Who words and actions will adjust

To standards in which we believe?

Oh! who is not calumnious?

Who labours hard to humour us?

To whom are our misfortunes grief

And who is not a tiresome thief?

My venerated reader, oh!

Cease the pursuit of shadows vain,

Spare yourself unavailing pain

And all your love on self bestow;

A worthy object ’tis, and well

I know there’s none more amiable.