I am sore wounded but not slainI will lay me down and bleed a whileAnd then rise up to fight again

But far more numerous was the herd of such,Who think too little, and who talk too much.

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls, must dive below.

Welcome, thou kind deceiver!Thou best of thieves: who, with an easy key,Dost open life, and, unperceived by us,Even steal us from ourselves.

For you may palm upon us new for old:All, as they say, that glitters, is not gold.

Dim as the borrowed beams of moons and starsTo lonely, weary, wandering travelers,Is Reason to the soul; and, as on highThose rolling fires discover but the sky,Not light us here, so Reason's glimmering rayWas lent, not to assure our doubtful way,But guide us upward to a better day.

Doeg, though without knowing how or why, Made still a blundering kind of melody; Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in; Free from all meaning whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.

A satirical poet is the check of the laymen on bad priests.