The More Haste, Ever The Worst Speed.

A Servile Race Who, In Mere Want Of Fault, All Merit Place; Who Blind Obedience Pay To Ancient Schools, Bigots To Greece, And Slaves To Musty Rules.

Whom Drink Made Wits, Though Nature Made Them Fools.

Old Age, A Second Child, By Nature Curst With More And Greater Evils Than The First, Weak, Sickly, Full Of Pains: In Ev'ry Breath Railing At Life, And Yet Afraid Of Death.

Satire, Whilst Envy And Ill-humor Sway The Mind Of Man, Must Always Make Her Way; Nor To A Bosom, With Discretion Fraught, Is All Her Malice Worth A Single Thought. The Wise Have Not The Will, Nor Fools The Power, To Stop Her Headstrong Course; Within The Hour Left To Herself, She Dies; Opposing Strife Gives Her Fresh Vigor, And Prolongs Her Life.

Those Who Would Make Us Feel Must Feel Themselves.