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Be pain in dress, and sober in your diet; In short, my deary, kiss me! and be quiet.

The screech-owl, with ill-boding cry, Portends strange things, old women say; Stops every fool that passes by, And frights the school-boy from his play.

Satire should, like a polished razor keen, Wound with a touch that's scarcely felt or seen. Thine is an oyster knife, that hacks and hews; The rage but not the talent to abuse.

'Tis a sort of duty to be rich, that it may be in one's power to do good, riches being another word for power.