Who waste in studious trance the midnight oil,
Say, can ye emulate, with all your rules,
Drawn or from Grecian or from Gothic schools.
This artless frame? Instinct her simple guide,
A heaven-taught insect baffles all your pride.
Or ye on theory's wild wave that roam,
And skim from science but its froth and foam,
Who wield 'gainst Truth the sharp yet shivery lance,
Devoted bending to your idol, Chance;
Oh! say, could Chance her lawless atoms bind,