Thine is just such an image of his pen,
As thou thyself art of the sons of men:
Where our own species in burlesque we trace,
A sign-post likeness of the human race,
That is at once resemblance and disgrace.
If he has thorns, they all on roses grow;
Thine like rude thistles, and mean brambles show,
With this exception, that tho’ rank the soil,
Weeds as they are they seem produc’d by toil.
Satire should, like a polish’d razor keen,