Wit, Who Never Once Forgave A Brother,

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.

Fool Beckons Fool, And Dunce Awakens Dunce.

Satire, Whilst Envy And Ill-humor Sway The Mind Of Man, Must Always Make Her Way; Nor To A Bosom, With Discretion Fraught, Is All Her Malice Worth A Single Thought. The Wise Have Not The Will, Nor Fools The Power, To Stop Her Headstrong Course; Within The Hour Left To Herself, She Dies; Opposing Strife Gives Her Fresh Vigor, And Prolongs Her Life.

Childhood, Who Like An April Morn Appears, Sunshine And Rain, Hopes Clouded O'er With Fears.

Old Age, A Second Child, By Nature Curst With More And Greater Evils Than The First, Weak, Sickly, Full Of Pains: In Ev'ry Breath Railing At Life, And Yet Afraid Of Death.