And nature’s injuries are arts of life;
Where brighter reason prompts to bolder crimes;
And heavenly talents make infernal hearts;
That unsurmountable extreme of guilt!
Poor Machiavel! who labour’d hard his plan,
Forgot, that genius need not go to school;
Forgot, that man, without a tutor wise,
His plan had practised, long before ’twas writ. 332
The world’s all title-page; there’s no contents;
The world’s all face; the man who shows his heart,