Satire 's My Weapon, But I 'm Too Discreet To Run Amuck, And Tilt At All I Meet.

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Satire 's my weapon, but I 'm too discreet
To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.
-- Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
-- Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace, Satire i, Book ii, Line 69

Bare the mean heart that lurks behind a star.
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl, The feast of reason and the flow of soul.
For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best, Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.
Above all Greek, above all Roman fame.
Give me again my hollow tree, A crust of bread, and liberty.
But touch me, and no minister so sore; Whoe'er offends at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme, Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, And the sad burden of some merry song.
Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old.
The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease.

Satire 's My Weapon, But I 'm Too Discreet To Run Amuck, And Tilt At All I Meet.

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