With Various Readings Stored His Empty Skull,

What It 't To Us, If Taxes Rise Or Fall, Thanks To Our Fortune, We Pay None At All. Let Muckworms Who In Dirty Acres Deal, Lament Those Hardships Which We Cannot Feel, His Grace Who Smarts, May Bellow If He Please, But Must I Bellow Too, Who Sit At Ease? By Custom Safe, The Poets' Numbers Flow, Free As The Light And Air Some Years Ago. No Statesman E'er Will Find It Worth His Pains To Tax Our Labours, And Excise Our Brains. Burthens Like These With Earthly Buildings Bear, No Tributes Laid On Castles In The Air.

The Scots Are Poor, Cries Surly English Pride; True Is The Charge, Nor By Themselves Denied. Are They Not Then In Strictest Reason Clear, Who Wisely Come To Mend Their Fortunes Here?

If You Mean To Profit, Learn To Praise.

He Mouths A Sentence As Curs Mouth A Bone.

Drawn By Conceit From Reason's Plan How Vain Is That Poor Creature Man; How Pleas'd In Ev'ry Paltry Elf To Grate About That Thing Himself.