Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.
Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss.
Cursed be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe.
The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read With loads of learned lumber in his head.
He who serves his brother best gets nearer God than all the rest.