All Hunt For Fame, But Most Mistake

What It 't To Us, If Taxes Rise Or Fall, Thanks To Our Fortune, We Pay None At All. Let Muckworms Who In Dirty Acres Deal, Lament Those Hardships Which We Cannot Feel, His Grace Who Smarts, May Bellow If He Please, But Must I Bellow Too, Who Sit At Ease? By Custom Safe, The Poets' Numbers Flow, Free As The Light And Air Some Years Ago. No Statesman E'er Will Find It Worth His Pains To Tax Our Labours, And Excise Our Brains. Burthens Like These With Earthly Buildings Bear, No Tributes Laid On Castles In The Air.

Those Who Would Make Us Feel Must Feel Themselves.

With That Malignant Envy Which Turns Pale, And Sickens, Even If A Friend Prevail.

Those Who Raise Envy Will Easily Incur Censure.

Nor Waste Their Sweetness In The Desert Air.