Satire is a sort of glass, wherein beholders do generally
discover everybody's face but their own.

Satire is a sort of glass, wherein beholders do generally
discover everybody's face but their own.

Why should we fear; and what? The laws?
They all are armed in virtue's cause;
And aiming read more

Why should we fear; and what? The laws?
They all are armed in virtue's cause;
And aiming at the self-same end,
Satire is always virtue's friend.

I wear my Pen as others do their Sword.
To each affronting sot I meet, the word
read more

I wear my Pen as others do their Sword.
To each affronting sot I meet, the word
Is Satisfaction: straight to thrusts I go,
And pointed satire runs him through and through.

Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And without sneering teach the rest to sneer;
Willing read more

Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And without sneering teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend,
A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend.

The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or
behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, read more

The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or
behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out
of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

Unless a love of virtue light the flame,
Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame;
read more

Unless a love of virtue light the flame,
Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame;
He hides behind a magisterial air
He own offences, and strips others' bare.

Satire or sense, alas! Can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

Satire or sense, alas! Can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

It is difficult not to write satire.
[Lat., Difficile est satiram non scribere.]

It is difficult not to write satire.
[Lat., Difficile est satiram non scribere.]

There are, to whom my satire seems too bold;
Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough,
And something read more

There are, to whom my satire seems too bold;
Scarce to wise Peter complaisant enough,
And something said of Chartres much too rough.