The Oak, When Living, Monarch Of The

Enough Of Satire; In Less Harden'd Times Great Was Her Force, And Mighty Were Her Rhymes. I've Read Of Men, Beyond Man's Daring Brave, Who Yet Have Trembled At The Strokes She Gave; Whose Souls Have Felt More Terrible Alarms From Her One Line, Than From A World In Arms.

The More Haste, Ever The Worst Speed.

If Honor Calls, Where'er She Points The Way The Sons Of Honor Follow, And Obey.

The Proud Will Sooner Lose Than Ask Their Way.

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.