Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.
Our birth is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.
Take God from nature, nothing great is left.
Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!
I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold.