That All Men Would Be

Feel You The Barren Flattery Of A Rhyme? Can Poets Soothe You, When You Pine For Bread, By Winding Myrtle Round Your Ruin'd Shed?

And Took For Truth The Test Of Ridicule.

The Game Is Never Lost Till Won.

Void Of All Honor, Avaricious, Rash, The Daring Tribe Compound Their Boasted Trash Tincture Of Syrup, Lotion, Drop, Or Pill; All Tempt The Sick To Trust The Lying Bill.

Fashion, Though Folly's Child, And Guide Of Fools, Rules E'en The Wisest, And In Learning Rules.