Truth they profess’d, yet often left the true

And beaten prospect, for the wild and new.

His chosen friend his fiftieth year had seen,

His fortune easy, and his air serene;

Deist and atheist call’d; for few agreed

What were his notions, principles, or creed;

His mind reposed not, for he hated rest,

But all things made a query or a jest;

Perplex’d himself, he ever sought to prove

That man is doom’d in endless doubt to rove;