To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.

Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace. Satire i. Book ii. Line 69.

But touch me, and no minister so sore;

Whoe'er offends at some unlucky time

Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme,

Sacred to ridicule his whole life long,

And the sad burden of some merry song.

Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace. Satire i. Book ii. Line 76.

Bare the mean heart that lurks behind a star.

Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace. Satire i. Book ii. Line 110.