If, presume not to God to scan;
The proper study of Mankind is Man.
Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state,
A being darkly wise, and rudely great."

"Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe."

"Is there a parson, much bemused in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
A clerk foredoomed his father's soul to cross
Who pens a stanza, when he should engross?"

"Let standard-authors, thus, like trophies borne,
Appear more glorious as more hacked and torn."

Fame can never make us lie down contentedly on a deathbed.