The Life Of A Wit Is A

Some Praise At Morning What They Blame At Night, But Always Think The Last Opinion Right.

A Youth Of Frolic, An Old Age Of Cards.

Nay, Fly To Altars; There They'll Talk You Dead; For Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear To Tread.

Who Finds Not Providence All Good And Wise, Alike In What It Gives, And What Denies.

Satire Or Sense, Alas! Can Sporus Feel? Who Breaks A Butterfly Upon A Wheel?