Chaste To Her Husband, Frank To All

To Happy Convents, Bosomed Deep In Vines, Where Slumber Abbots, Purple As Their Wines.

By Flatterers Besieged And So Obliging That He Ne'er Obliged.

Satire's My Weapon, But I'm Too Discreet To Run Amuck, And Tilt At All I Meet.

Nothing Is More Certain Than Much Of The Force; As Well As Grace, Of Arguments Or Instructions Depends Their Conciseness.

Wretches Hang That Jurymen May Dine.