Knaves Starve Not In The Land Of

Though By Whim, Envy, Or Resentment Led, They Damn Those Authors Whom They Never Read.

When Satire Flies Abroad On Falsehood's Wing, Short Is Her Life, And Impotent Her Sting; But When To Truth Allied, The Wound She Gives Sinks Deep, And To Remotest Ages Lives.

Who, With Tame Cowardice Familiar Grown, Would Hear My Thoughts, But Fear To Speak Their Own.

There's A Strange Something, Which Without A Brain Fools Feel, And Which E'en Wise Men Can't Explain, Planted In Man, To Bind Him To That Earth, In Dearest Ties, From Whence He Drew His Birth.

It Can't Be Nature, For It Is Not Sense.