To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense.

England, A Happy Land We Know, Where Follies Naturally Grow, Where Without Culture They Arise, And Tow'r Above The Common Size.

Whom Drink Made Wits, Though Nature Made Them Fools.

He Mouths A Sentence As Curs Mouth A Bone.

Great Use They Have, When In The Hands Of One Like Me, Who Understands, Who Understands The Time And Place, The Person, Manner, And The Grace, Which Fools Neglect; So That We Find, If All The Requisites Are Join'd, From Whence A Perfect Joke Must Spring, A Joke's A Very Serious Thing.

Quick-circulating Slanders Mirth Afford; And Reputation Bleeds In Every Word.