Heaven From All Creatures Hides The Book

Whoe'er He Be That Tells My Faults, I Hate Him Mortally.

What So Pure, Which Envious Tongues Will Spare? Some Wicked Wits Have Libell'd All The Fair, With Matchless Impudence They Style A Wife, The Dear-bought Curse, And Lawful Plague Of Life; A Bosom Serpent, A Domestic Evil, A Night Invasion, And A Mid-day Devil; Let Not The Wise These Sland'rous Words Regard, But Curse The Bones Of Ev'ry Living Bard.

Satire Or Sense, Alas! Can Sporus Feel? Who Breaks A Butterfly Upon A Wheel?

And Each Blasphemer Quite Escape The Rod, Because The Insult's Not On Man, But God?

All Seems Infected That Th' Infected Spy, As All Looks Yellow To The Jaundiced Eye.