A Servile Race Who, In

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.

The Laws I Love; The Lawyers I Suspect.

The Villager, Born Humbly And Bred Hard, Content His Wealth, And Poverty His Guard, In Action Simply Just, In Conscience Clear, By Guilt Untainted, Undisturb'd By Fear, His Means But Scanty, And His Wants But Few, Labor His Business, And His Pleasure Too, Enjoys More Comforts In A Single Hour Than Ages Give The Wretch Condemn'd To Power.

And Reputation Bleeds In Ev'ry Word.

If You Mean To Profit, Learn To Praise.