A Sly Old Fish, Too Cunning For

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

I Grant Indeed That Fields And Flocks Have Charms, For Him That Gazes Or For Him That Farms.

Temp'rate In Every Place--abroad, At Home, Thence Will Applause, And Hence Will Profit Come; And Health From Either--he In Time Prepares For Sickness, Age, And Their Attendant Cares.

When Winter Stern, His Gloomy Front Uprears, A Sable Void The Barren Earth Appears; The Meads No More Their Former Verdure Boast, Fast-bound Their Streams, And All Their Beauty Lost; The Herds, The Flocks, In Icy Garments Mourn, And Wildly Murmur For The Spring's Return; From Snow-topp'd Hills The Whirlwinds Keenly Blow, Howl Through The Woods, And Pierce The Vales Below, Through The Sharp Air A Flaky Torrent Flies, Mocks The Slow Sight, And Hides The Gloomy Skies.

Fortunes Are Made, If I The Facts May State-- Though Poor Myself, I Know The Fortunate: First, There's A Knowledge Of The Way From Whence Good Fortune Comes--and This Is Sterling Sense: Then Perseverance, Never To Decline The Chase Of Riches Till The Prey Is Thine; And Firmness Never To Be Drawn Away By Any Passion From That Noble Prey-- By Love, Ambition, Study, Travel, Fame, Or The Vain Hope That Lives Upon A Name.