Fly, dotard, fly! With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.
Oh! be thou blest with all that Heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure-and a friend.
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss.
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.
So perish all who do the like again.
Condition, circumstance, is not the thing; Bliss is the same in subject or in king.