ABSTRACT
Perhaps I may allow the Dean Had too much satire in his vein. And seemed determined not to starve it, Because no age could more deserve it. Yet malice never was his aim; He lashed the vice, but spared the name. No individual could resent, Where thousands equally were meant. His satire points at no defect, But what all mortals may correct; For he abhorred that senseless tribe Who call it humour when they jibe; He spared a hump or crooked nose, Whose owners set not up for beaux. True, genuine dullness2 moved his pity, Unless it offered to be witty. Those who their ignorance confessed, He ne’er offended with a jest; But laughed to hear an idiot quote A verse from Horace, learnt by rote.
