The Wretched Have No Friends.

Satire Among The Romans, But Not Among The Greeks, Was A Bitter Invective Poem.

For Those Whom God To Ruin Has Design'd, He Fits For Fate, And First Destroys Their Mind.

Great Wits Are Sure To Madness Near Allied, And Thin Partitions Do Their Bounds Divide.

When He Spoke, What Tender Words He Used! So Softly, That Like Flakes Of Feathered Snow, They Melted As They Fell.

He Was The Man Who Of All Modern, And Perhaps Ancient Poets, Had The Largest And Most Comprehensive Soul. . . . He Was Naturally Learn'd; He Needed Not The Spectacles Of Books To Read Nature; He Looked Inwards, And Found Her There. . . . He Is Many Times Flat, Insipid; His Comic Wit Degenerating In To Clenches, His Serious Swelling Into Bombast. But He Is Always Great, When Some Occasion Is Presented To Him.