Most Of Those Evils We Poor Mortals

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.

A Servile Race Who, In Mere Want Of Fault, All Merit Place; Who Blind Obedience Pay To Ancient Schools, Bigots To Greece, And Slaves To Musty Rules.

Genius Is Of No Country.

Amongst The Sons Of Men How Few Are Known Who Dare Be Just To Merit Not Their Own.

Gipsies, Who Every Ill Can Cure, Except The Ill Of Being Poor Who Charms 'gainst Love And Agues Sell, Who Can In Hen-roost Set A Spell, Prepar'd By Arts, To Them Best Known To Catch All Feet Except Their Own, Who, As To Fortune, Can Unlock It, As Easily As Pick A Pocket.