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Can't I another's face commend, Or to her virtues be a friend, But instantly your forehead louers, As if her merit lessen'd yours?

But from the hoop's bewitching round, He very shoe has power to wound.

Shoemaker, stick to your last.

I am rich beyond the dreams of avarice.

So shall they build me altars in their zeal, Where knaves shall minister, and fools shall kneel: Where faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell, Written in blood--and Bigotry may swell The sail he spreads for Heav'n with blasts from hell!