A Teacher Should Be Sparing Of His

Most Satirists Are Indeed A Public Scourge; Their Mildest Physic Is A Farrier's Purge; Their Acrid Temper Turns, As Soon As Stirr'd, The Milk Of Their Good Purpose All To Curd. Their Zeal Begotten, As Their Works Rehearse, By Lean Despair Upon An Empty Purse.

Restraining Prayer, We Cease To Fight; Prayer Keeps The Christian's Armor Bright; And Satan Trembles When He Sees The Weakest Saint Upon His Knees.

Not A Flower But Shows Some Touch, In Freckle, Streak Or Stain, Of His Unrivall'd Pencil. He Inspires Their Balmy Odors, And Imparts Their Hues, And Bathes Their Eyes With Nectar, And Includes In Grains As Countless As The Seaside Sands, The Forms With Which He Sprinkles All The Earth Happy Who Walks With Him!

Ten Thousand Casks, Forever Dribbling Out Their Base Contents, Touch'd By The Midas Finger Of The State, Bleed Gold For Ministers To Sport Away. Drink, And Be Mad Then; 'tis Your Country Bids!

Far Happier Are The Dead Methinks Than They Who Look For Death And Fear It Every Day.