Samuel Butler

Success, the mark no mortal wit,
Or surest hand, can always hit:
For whatsoe'er we perpetrate,
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Success, the mark no mortal wit,
Or surest hand, can always hit:
For whatsoe'er we perpetrate,
We do but row, we're steer'd by Fate,
Which in success oft disinherits,
For spurious causes, noblest merits.

For zeal's a dreadful termagant,
That teaches saints to tear and cant.

For zeal's a dreadful termagant,
That teaches saints to tear and cant.

And as the French we conquer'd once,
Now give us laws for pantaloons,
The length of breeches read more

And as the French we conquer'd once,
Now give us laws for pantaloons,
The length of breeches and the gathers
Port-cannons, periwigs, and feathers.

Through thick and thin.

Through thick and thin.

He'd undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man's no horse.
He'd prove a buzzard is read more

He'd undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man's no horse.
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a Lord may be an owl,
A calf an Alderman, a goose a Justice,
And rooks, Committee-men or Trustees.