No author ever spar'd a brother.

Do you think your mother and I should have lived comfortably so long together, if ever we had been married? Baggage!

From kings to cobblers 'tis the same; Bad servants wound their masters' fame.

One common fate we both must prove; You die with envy, I with love.

What will not luxury taste? Earth, sea, and air, Are daily ransack'd for the bill of fare. Blood stuffed in skins is British Christians' food, And France robs marshes of the croaking brood.

Variety's the source of joy below, From whence still fresh-revolving pleasures flow, In books and love the mind one end pursues, And only change the expiring flames renews.

Around the steel no tortur'd worm shall twine, No blood of living insect stain my line; Let me, less cruel, cast the feather'd hook, With pliant rod athwart the pebbled brook, Silent along the mazy margin stray, And with the fur-wrought fly delude the prey.