Unless to please our nice corrupted sense,
Art be call’d in, and join’d with vast expence;
Then rivers wander thro’ the vale no more,
But boil in pipes, or spout thro’ figur’d ore;
The neighb’ring brooks their empty channels mourn,
That now enrich some artificial urn.
Thus ever suit your numbers to your theme,
And tune their cadence to the falling stream;
Or shou’d the falling stream incline to love,
Let the words slide, and like its murmers move: