Me let the tender office long engage
To rock the cradle of reposing age;
With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,
Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death;
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep awhile one parent from the sky.
Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Prologue to the Satires. Line 408.
Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day.
Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace. Satire i. Book ii. Line 6.
Satire 's my weapon, but I 'm too discreet