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Those, who by Satyre would reform the Town,
Should have some little Merit of their own,
And not be Rakes themselves below Lampoon.
For all their Libels Panegyricks are,
They're still read backward, like a Witch's Pray'r.
Ell---t's Reproofs, who do's not make his Sport?
Who'll e'er repent that S---d do's exhort?
Therefore let Satyre Writers be supprest,
Or be reform'd by cautious D---set's Test.
'Tis only D---set's Judgment can command
Wit, the worst Weapon in a Madman's Hand.
The biting Things by that great Master said,
Flow from rich Sense, but theirs from want of Bread,
To lash our Faults and Follies is his Aim,
Theirs is true Worth and Vertue to defame:
In D---set Wit (and therefore still 'twill please)
Is Constitution, but in them Disease.