Get Your Enemy To Read Your Works

Wise Wretch! With Pleasures Too Refined To Please, With Too Much Spirit To Be E'er At Ease, With Too Much Quickness Ever To Be Taught, With Too Much Thinking To Have Common Thought: You Purchase Pain With All That Joy Can Give, And Die Of Nothing But A Rage To Live.

And Make Each Day A Critic On The Last.

Horses (thou Say'st) And Asses Men May Try, And Ring Suspected Vessels Ere They Buy; But Wives, A Random Choice, Untried They Take; They Dream In Courtship, But In Wedlock Wake; Then, Nor Till Then, The Veil's Removed Away, And All The Woman Glares In Open Day.

Some Place The Bliss In Action, Some In Ease, Those Call It Pleasure, And Contentment These.

The Hog That Ploughs Not, Not Obeys Thy Call, Lives On The Labours Of This Lord Of All.