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Poem	Cou'd our First Father, at his toilsome Plough, Thorns in his Path, and Labour on his Brow, Cloath'd only in a rude, unpolish'd Skin, Cou'd he a vain Fantastick Nymph have seen, In all her Airs, in all her antick Graces, Her various Fashions, and more various Faces; How had it pos'd that Skill, which late assign'd Just Appellations to Each several Kind! A right Idea of the Sight to frame; T'have guest from what New Element she came; T'have hit the wav'ring Form, or giv'n this Thing a Name.
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