In Building, there's no Laws of human Kind,
Admit a Medium; to the Artist's Mind,
All must be perfect, or 'tis understood,
Excessive Ill,—or else sublimely Good.
In Things where Reason, seems but to subside,
Men learn to stem, the Torrent of the Tide;
They dance, or fence, or vainly wish to fly,
But if they fail, contented cease to try.
But all in Building, universal run,
Undoing others, and themselves undone.