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