Wit, Who Never Once Forgave A Brother,

The Best Things Carried To Excess Are Wrong.

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.

Wit, Who Never Once Forgave A Brother, Shall Forgive A Dunce.

This A Sacred Rule We Find Among The Nicest Of Mankind, (which Never Might Exception Brook From Hobbes Even Down To Bolingbroke,) To Doubt Of Facts, However True, Unless They Know The Causes Too.

The Oak, When Living, Monarch Of The Wood; The English Oak, Which, Dead, Commands The Flood.