There are, to whom my satire seems too bold; Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough, And something said of Chartres much too rough.

Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet To run amuck and tilt at all I meet.

Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend, A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend.

Satire or sense, alas! Can Sporus feel? Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

Order is heaven's first law.

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.