False Great­ness, by Isaac Watts

‘Tis true, my form is some­thing odd
but blam­ing me, is blam­ing God,
Could I cre­ate myself anew
I would not fail in pleas­ing you.

If I could reach from pole to pole
or grasp the ocean with a span,
I would be mea­sured by the soul
The mind’s the stan­dard of the Man.