No more than t' earth the ne plus ultra's Thule,
220As 'fore America was found, it was.
'Tis fit for those whose bosom-friends are lice,
To know the pain, not sweet delights, of vice.
Dost see yon tender webs Arachne spins,
Through which with ease the lusty bumbles break,
But to the feeble gnats that mesh their gins?
So those sage precepts, which our Sophies speak,
Fetter the passions of each worthless slave;
But over us no sovereign awe they have.'