“For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight, His can't be wrong whose life is in the right.”

“If I am right, Thy grace impartStill in the right to stay;If I am wrong, O, teach my heartTo find that better way!”

“Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native airIn his own ground.”

“I am his Highness' dog at Kew;Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?”

“Let Sporus tremble — "What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk?Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel?Who breaks a Butterfly upon a Wheel?"Yet let me flap this Bug with gilded wings,This painted Child of Dirt that stinks and stings; Whose Buzz the Witty and the Fair annoys,Yet Wit ne'er tastes, and Beauty ne'er enjoys,”

“Whatever is, is right.”

“Then most our trouble still when most admired,And still the more we give, the more required;Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease,Sure some to vex, but never all to please.”