Why Did I Write? What Sin To

Hope Springs Eternal In The Human Breast: Man Never Is, But Always To Be Blest.

Beauty That Shocks You, Parts That None Will Trust, Wit That Can Creep, And Pride That Licks The Dust.

Some Place The Bliss In Action, Some In Ease, Those Call It Pleasure, And Contentment These.

All Other Goods By Fortune's Hand Are Given, A Wife Is The Peculiar Gift Of Heaven.

Satire's My Weapon, But I'm Too Discreet To Run Amuck, And Tilt At All I Meet.