In General Satire, Every Man

But Monument Themselves Memorials Need.

Say, Ye Oppress'd By Some Fantastic Woes, Some Jarring Nerve That Baffles Your Repose; Who Press The Downy Couch, While Slaves Advance With Timid Eye, To Read The Distant Glance; Who With Sad Prayers The Weary Doctor Tease, To Name The Nameless Ever-new Disease; Who With Mock Patience Dire Complaints Endure, Which Real Pain And That Alone Can Cure; How Would Ye Bear In Real Pain To Lie, Despised, Neglected, Left Alone To Die? How Would Ye Bear To Draw Your Latest Breath, Where All That's Wretched Paves The Way For Death?

The Gentle Fair On Nervous Tea Relies, Whilst Gay Good-nature Sparkles In Her Eyes; An Inoffensive Scandal Fluttering Round, Too Rough To Tickle, And Too Light To Wound.

Soldiers In Arms! Defenders Of Our Soil! Who From Destruction Save Us; Who From Spoil Protect The Sons Of Peace, Who Traffic Or Who Toil; Would I Could Duly Praise You, That Each Deed Your Foe's Might Honor, And Your Friends Might Read.

To Every Class We Have A School Assign'd, Rules For All Ranks, And Food For Every Mind: Yet One There Is, That Small Regard To Rule Or Study Pays, And Still Is Deem'd A School; That, Where A Deaf, Poor, Patient Widow Sits, And Awes Some Thirty Infants As She Knits; Infants Of Humble, Busy Wives, Who Pay Some Trifling Price For Freedom Through The Day. At This Good Matron's Hut The Children Meet, Who Thus Becomes The Mother Of The Street.