Nor Fame I Slight, Nor Her Favors

If, Presume Not To God To Scan; The Proper Study Of Mankind Is Man. Plac'd On This Isthmus Of A Middle State, A Being Darkly Wise, And Rudely Great.

Strength Of Mind Is Exercise, Not Rest.

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

What Woeful Stuff This Madrigal Would Be, In Some Starved Hackney Sonneteer, Or Me! But Let A Lord Once Own The Happy Lines, How The Wit Brightens! How The Style Refines!

And Make Each Day A Critic On The Last.