Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?
All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul.
The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth.
Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.
The villain's censure is extorted praise.
Most women have no characters at all.