Blest be the thought. Here guiltless of offence,
Dispassion'd Truth may sneer you into sense;
On vicious men her whole artillery play,
Sublimely grave or whimsically gay;
Thro' the wide world in moral vision range,
Glide thro' the Court, and steal upon the Change;
Lust's rampant empress keenly-ey'd pursue,
Or opening in her Paphos, or the stew;
Lethargic Justice on the bench assail,
Edge the dull sword, and poise th' unequal scale:
With Rabelais' jest display th' officious knave,
In life's mad vortex whirling to the grave;
Point at Opinion's self-embroider'd vest,
Folly's gay plume, and Pride's enormous crest,
Each frenzy mortify, each vice confound,
And Self-conviction only feel the wound.