“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’dJust 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, and giv’n this Thing a Name.”