There Still Remains To Mortify A Wit

Then, At The Last And Only Couplet Fraught With Some Unmeaning Thing They Call A Thought, A Needless Alexandrine Ends The Song, That, Like A Wounded Snake, Drags Its Slow Length Along.

Expression Is The Dress Of Thought.

Amusement Is The Happiness Of Those Who Cannot Think.

Gentle Dullness Ever Loves A Joke.

We Think Our Fathers Fools, So Wise We Grow. Our Wiser Sons, No Doubt Will Think Us So.