Satire's My Weapon, But I'm

To Happy Convents, Bosomed Deep In Vines, Where Slumber Abbots, Purple As Their Wines.

To What Base Ends, And By What Abject Ways, Are Mortals Urg'd Through Sacred Lust Of Praise!

The Flower's Are Gone When The Fruits Appear To Ripen.

'tis Not A Lip, Or Eye, We Beauty Call, But The Joint Force And Full Result Of All.

All Looks Yellow To A Jaundiced Eye That Habitually Compares Everything To Something Better. But By Changing That Habit To Comparing Everything To Something Worse, Even Making It A Game, That Person Can Find Gratitude, Relief And Happiness Where-ever They Go And Whatever They Experience, Guaranteed!