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.

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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.
-- Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
-- Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace, Satire i, Book ii, Line 76

Bare the mean heart that lurks behind a star.
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
Who says in verse what others say in prose.
Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join The varying verse, the full resounding line, The long majestic march, and energy divine.
Satire 's my weapon, but I 'm too discreet To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.
For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best, Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.
Give me again my hollow tree, A crust of bread, and liberty.
There St. John mingles with my friendly bowl, The feast of reason and the flow of soul.
Above all Greek, above all Roman fame.

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.

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