Swift Was The Race, But Short The

The End Of Satire Is The Amendment Of Vices By Correction; And He Who Writes Honestly Is No More An Enemy To The Offender Than The Physician To The Patient When He Prescribes Harsh Remedies.

Fattened In Vice, So Callous And So Gross, He Sins And Sees Not, Senseless Of His Loss.

Old As I Am, For Ladies' Love Unfit, The Power Of Beauty I Remember Yet.

What I Have Left Is From My Native Spring; I've Still A Heart That Swells, In Scorn Of Fate, And Lifts Me To My Banks.

Chaucer Followed Nature Everywhere, But Was Never So Bold To Go Beyond Her.