SATIRE.

  Prepare for rhyme—­I’ll publish, right or wrong: 
  Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.  LORD BYRON.

  Satire should, like a polished razor keen,
  Wound with a touch that’s scarcely felt or seen.
To the Imitator of the first Satire of Horace.  Bk.  II. 
  LADY M.W.  MONTAGU.

  Satire’s my weapon, but I’m too discreet
  To run amuck and tilt at all I meet.
Second Book of Horace.  A. POPE.

  Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel,
  Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
Satires:  Prologue.  A. POPE.

SCANDAL.

  Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
  And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
  Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
  Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike.
Satires:  Prologue.  A. POPE.

  And there’s a lust in man no charm can tame
  Of loudly publishing our neighbor’s shame;
  On eagles’ wings immortal scandals fly,
  While virtuous actions are but born and die.
Satire IX.  JUVENAL. Trans. of G. HARVEY.

  There’s nothing blackens like the ink of fools. 
  If true, a woful likeness; and, if lies,
  “Praise undeserved is scandal in disguise.”
Imitations of Horace, Epistle I. Bk.  II.  A. POPE.

  A third interprets motions, looks and eyes;
  At every word a reputation dies. 
  Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat,
  With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that.
Rape of the Lock, Canto III.  A. POPE.

  Cursed be the verse, how well soe’er it flow,
  That tends to make one worthy man my foe.
The Satires:  Prologue.  A. POPE.

SCHOOL.

  The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand,
  Whistling aloud to bear his courage up.
The Grave.  R. BLAIR.

  I do present you with a man of mine,
  Cunning in music and the mathematics,
  To instruct her fully in those sciences.
Taming of the Shrew, Act ii.  Sc. 1.  SHAKESPEARE.

  Schoolmasters will I keep within my house,
  Fit to instruct her youth....
  ... for, to cunning men
  I will be very kind, and liberal
  To mine own children in good bringing up.
Taming of The Shrew, Act i.  Sc. 1.  SHAKESPEARE.

  Grave is the Master’s look:  his forehead wears
  Thick rows of wrinkles, prints of worrying cares: 
  Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule,
  His worst of all whose kingdom is a school. 
  Supreme he sits; before the awful frown
  That binds his brows the boldest eye goes down;
  Not more submissive Israel heard and saw
  At Sinai’s foot the Giver of the Law.
The School-Boy.  O.W.  HOLMES.