In general satire, every man perceives A slight attack, yet neither fears nor grieves.
Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies, Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies; The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare, And shed their substance on the floating air.
Life's bloomy flush was lost.
Void of all honor, avaricious, rash, The daring tribe compound their boasted trash Tincture of syrup, lotion, drop, or pill; All tempt the sick to trust the lying bill.
Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme? Can poets soothe you, when you pine for bread, By winding myrtle round your ruin'd shed?
What is a church? Let Truth and reason speak, They would reply, "The faithful, pure and meek, From Christian folds, the one selected race, Of all professions, and in every place.
With awe, around these silent walks I tread; These are the lasting mansions of the dead.
Lo! the poor toper whose untutored sense, Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense; Whose head proud fancy never taught to steer, Beyond the muddy ecstasies of beer.
Secrets with girls, like guns with boys, are never valued till they make a noise.
We cannot heal the throbbing heart till we discern the wounds within.
Oh! 'tis a precious thing, when wives are dead, To find such numbers who will serve instead: And in whatever state a man be thrown, 'Tis that precisely they would wish their own.
The wife was pretty, trifling, childish, weak; She could not think, but would not cease to speak.
Books cannot always please, however good; Minds are not ever craving for their food.
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