Patience Is Sorrow's Salve.

The Rigid Saint, By Whom No Mercy's Shown To Saints Whose Lives Are Better Than His Own.

No Two On Earth In All Things Can Agree; All Have Some Darling Singularity; Women And Men, As Well As Girls And Boys, In Gewgaws Take Delight, And Sigh For Toys, Your Sceptres And Your Crowns, And Such Like Things, Are But A Better Kind Of Toys For Kings. In Things Indifferent Reason Bids Us Choose, Whether The Whim's A Monkey Or A Muse.

England A Fortune-telling Host, As Num'rous As The Stars, Could Boast; Matrons, Who Toss The Cup, And See The Grounds Of Fate In Grounds Of Tea.

A Servile Race Who, In Mere Want Of Fault, All Merit Place; Who Blind Obedience Pay To Ancient Schools, Bigots To Greece, And Slaves To Musty Rules.

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.