Poor Worms, They Hiss At Me, Whilst

Poor Worms, They Hiss At Me, Whilst I At Home Can Be Contented To Applaud Myself, . . . With Joy To See How Plump My Bags Are And My Barns.

Still May Syllables Jar With Time, Still May Reason War With Rhyme, Resting Never!

To Men Pressed By Their Wants All Change Is Ever Welcome.

O, For An Engine, To Keep Back All Clocks, Or Make The Sun Forget His Motion!

Tis Not The Wholesome Sharp Mortality, Or Modest Anger Of A Satiric Spirit, That Hurts Or Wounds The Body Of A State, But The Sinister Application Of The Malicious, Ignorant, And Base Interpreter; Who Will Distort And Strain The General Scope And Purpose Of An Author To His Particular And Private Spleen.