Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
One eye on death, and one full fix'd on heaven.
The soul of man was made to walk the skies.
They most the world enjoy who least admire.
Man wants but little, nor that little long; How soon must he resign his very dust, Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!
Let no man trust the first false step of guilt; it hangs upon a precipice, whose steep descent in last perdition ends.