The glowing cheek enamour’d fops may prize,
But men of sense can ruby lips despise.
And what is wit? a giddy flutt’ring thing,
Which can no real satisfaction bring.
A thousand ills attend his wretched life,
Whose dear companion is a witty wife:
Still she is right, and ever in the wrong,
Such elocution dwells upon her tongue.
But if assisted by the Muse’s skill,
He sure may dread the poison of her quill;