Ill News Is Wing'd With Fate, And

Satire Is A Kind Of Poetry In Which Human Vices Are Reprehended.

With Odorous Oil Thy Head And Hair Are Sleek; And Then Thou Kemb'st The Tuzzes On Thy Cheek: Of These, My Barbers Take A Costly Care.

The Good We Have Enjoyed From Heaven's Free Will, And Shall We Murmur To Endure The Ill?

The Unhappy Man, Who Once Has Trail'd A Pen, Lives Not To Please Himself, But Other Men; Is Always Drudging, Wastes His Life And Blood, Yet Only Eats And Drinks What You Think Good.

Freedom Which In No Other Land Will Thrive, Freedom An English Subject's Sole Prerogative.