Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.

Thus God and nature linked the gen'ral frame, And bade self-love and social be the same.

Though triumphs were to generals only due, crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too.

No louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands or lap-dogs breathe their last.

I am his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

Know then this truth, enough for man to know virtue alone is happiness below.

Pride is still aiming at the best houses: Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell; aspiring to be angels men rebel.