Of all these ways, if each  pursues his own,
Satire be kind, and let the wretch alone.
But show me one, who has it in his pow'r
To act consistent with himself an hour.
Sir Job  sail'd forth, the evening bright and still,
"No place on earth (he cry'd) like Greenwich hill!"
Up starts a Palace, lo! th' obedient base
Slopes at its foot, the woods its sides embrace,
The silver Thames reflects its marble face.
Now let some whimzy, or that  Dev'l within
Which guides all those who know not what they mean
But give the Knight (or give his Lady) spleen;
"Away, away! take all your scaffolds down,
"For Snug's the word: My dear! we'll live in Town. "