Wit is the lowest form of humor.
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
I am his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
Dogs, ye have had your day!
When I die, I should be ashamed to leave enough to build me a monument if there were a wanting friend above ground. I would enjoy the pleasure of what I give by giving it alive and seeing another enjoy it.