Pity swells the tide of love.
Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?
Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
Tomorrow is a satire on today, And shows its weakness.
A strange alternative * * *Must women have a doctor or a dance?
The qualities all in a bee that we meet, In an epigram never should fail; The body should always be little and sweet, And a sting should be felt in its tail.