The Laughers Are A Majority.

Taste, That Eternal Wanderer, Which Flies From Head To Ears, And Now From Ears To Eyes.

Fine Sense And Exalted Sense Are Not Half So Useful As Common Sense.

Our Grandsire, Adam, Ere Of Eve Possesst, Alone, And E'en In Paradise Unblest, With Mournful Looks The Blissful Scenes Survey'd, And Wander'd In The Solitary Shade. The Maker Say, Took Pity, And Bestow'd Woman, The Last, The Best Reserv'd Of God.

At Length Corruption, Like A General Flood (so Long By Watchful Ministers Withstood), Shall Deluge All; And Avarice, Creeping On, Spread Like A Low-born Mist, And Blot The Sun.

Praise Undeserved, Is Satire In Disguise.