Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.
Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.
Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
The proud will sooner lose than ask their way.
Who to patch up his fame, or fill his purse, Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse; Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known, Defacing first, then claiming for his own.
The laws I love; the lawyers I suspect.