In General Satire, Every Man

The Wife Was Pretty, Trifling, Childish, Weak; She Could Not Think, But Would Not Cease To Speak.

What Is A Church?—our Honest Sexton Tells, 'tis A Tall Building, With A Tower And Bells.

Dreams Are Like Portraits; And We Find They Please Because They Are Confessed Resemblances.

I Grant Indeed That Fields And Flocks Have Charms, For Him That Gazes Or For Him That Farms.

Shall He Who Soars, Inspired By Loftier Views, Life's Little Cares And Little Pains Refuse? Shall He Not Rather Feel A Double Share Of Mortal Woe, When Doubly Arm'd To Bear?