Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
A youth of frolic, an old age of cards.
Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.
The difference is too nice - Where ends the virtue or begins the vice.
Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.