Wound with a touch, that’s scarcely felt or seen.
Thine is an oyster-knife that hacks and hews;
The rage but not the talent to abuse;
And is in hate, what love is in the stews.
’Tis the gross lust of hate, that still annoys,
Without distinction, as gross love enjoys:
Neither to folly, nor to vice confin’d;
The object of thy spleen is human kind:
It preys on all, who yield or who resist;
To thee ’tis provocation to exist....