Lo! The poor Indian, whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.
Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.
I am his Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
Fickle Fortune reigns, and, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.
I as little fear that God will damn a man that has charity, as I hope that the priests can save one who has not.
Ah! why, ye Gods, should two and two make four?