Fame Is Nothing But An Empty Name.

Tis Mighty Easy O'er A Glass Of Wine On Vain Refinements Vainly To Refine, To Laugh At Poverty In Plenty's Reign, To Boast Of Apathy When Out Of Pain, And In Each Sentence, Worthy Of The Schools, Varnish'd With Sophistry, To Deal Out Rules Most Fit For Practice, But For One Poor Fault That Into Practice They Can Ne'er Be Brought.

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

If Honor Calls, Where'er She Points The Way The Sons Of Honor Follow, And Obey.

Enough Of Satire; In Less Harden'd Times Great Was Her Force, And Mighty Were Her Rhymes. I've Read Of Men, Beyond Man's Daring Brave, Who Yet Have Trembled At The Strokes She Gave; Whose Souls Have Felt More Terrible Alarms From Her One Line, Than From A World In Arms.

Greatly His Foes He Dreads, But More His Friends; He Hurts Me Most Who Lavishly Commends.