Is There No Hope? The Sick Man

I Hate The Man Who Builds His Name On Ruins Of Another's Fame. Thus Prudes, By Characters O'erthrown, Imagine That They Raise Their Own. Thus Scribblers, Covetous Of Praise, Think Slander Can Transplant The Bays.

To Shoot At Crows Is Powder Flung Away.

Here Shock, The Pride Of All His Kind, Is Laid, Who Fawned Like Man, But Ne'er Like Man Betrayed.

Learning By Study Must Be Won; 'twas Ne'er Entail'd From Son To Son.

O Polly, You Might Have Toyed And Kissed, By Keeping Men Off, You Keep Them On.