Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies.
The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.
There is a majesty in simplicity.
Truth shines the brighter, clad in verse.
No louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands or lap-dogs breathe their last.
Let fortune do her worst, whatever she makes us lose, so long as she never makes us lose our honesty and our independence.