Love the offender, yet detest the offense.
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, and love the offender, yet detest the offence?
Why did I write? whose sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
Why did I write? What sin to me unknown dipped me in ink, my parents , or my own?
Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old age away; . . . . To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
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