36
No pity touch'd the ancient Muse's breast;
She own'd the worthy few, and scorn'd the rest.
Our gentle times, more true to Nature's plan,
Excuse the poet while we love the man.
O'er ev'ry fault, the decent veil we throw,
Nor vent the blame, which seals another's woe.
She own'd the worthy few, and scorn'd the rest.
Our gentle times, more true to Nature's plan,
Excuse the poet while we love the man.
O'er ev'ry fault, the decent veil we throw,
Nor vent the blame, which seals another's woe.
