Fool Beckons Fool, And Dunce Awakens Dunce.

Who All In Raptures Their Own Works Rehearse, And Drawl Out Measur'd Prose, Which They Call Verse.

Even In A Hero's Heart Discretion Is The Better Part.

Weak Is That Throne, And In Itself Unsound, Which Takes Not Solid Virtue For Its Ground.

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.

Enough Of Self, That Darling Luscious Theme, O'er Which Philosophers In Raptures Dream; Of Which With Seeming Disregard They Write Then Prizing Most When Most They Seem To Slight.