All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way.
Enough of satire; in less harden'd times Great was her force, and mighty were her rhymes. I've read of men, beyond man's daring brave, Who yet have trembled at the strokes she gave; Whose souls have felt more terrible alarms From her one line, than from a world in arms.
No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
The oak, when living, monarch of the wood; The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
Satire, whilst envy and ill-humor sway The mind of man, must always make her way; Nor to a bosom, with discretion fraught, Is all her malice worth a single thought. The wise have not the will, nor fools the power, To stop her headstrong course; within the hour Left to herself, she dies; opposing strife Gives her fresh vigor, and prolongs her life.
Drawn by conceit from reason's plan How vain is that poor creature man; How pleas'd in ev'ry paltry elf To grate about that thing himself.
Within the brain's most secret cells, A certain lord chief justice dwells, Of sov'reign power, whom one and all, With common voice we reason call.
Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
If honor calls, where'er she points the way The sons of honor follow, and obey.
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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