A Master Passion Is The Love Of

In General Satire, Every Man Perceives A Slight Attack, Yet Neither Fears Nor Grieves.

Arrogance Is The Act Of The Great; Presumption That Of The Little.

Say, Ye Oppress'd By Some Fantastic Woes, Some Jarring Nerve That Baffles Your Repose; Who Press The Downy Couch, While Slaves Advance With Timid Eye, To Read The Distant Glance; Who With Sad Prayers The Weary Doctor Tease, To Name The Nameless Ever-new Disease; Who With Mock Patience Dire Complaints Endure, Which Real Pain And That Alone Can Cure; How Would Ye Bear In Real Pain To Lie, Despised, Neglected, Left Alone To Die? How Would Ye Bear To Draw Your Latest Breath, Where All That's Wretched Paves The Way For Death?

Wine, Like The Rising Sun, Possession Gains, And Drives The Mist Of Dullness From The Brains, The Gloomy Vapor From The Spirit Flies, And Views Of Gaiety And Gladness Rise.

Void Of All Honor, Avaricious, Rash, The Daring Tribe Compound Their Boasted Trash Tincture Of Syrup, Lotion, Drop, Or Pill; All Tempt The Sick To Trust The Lying Bill.