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768 pages, Paperback
First published September 6, 1984
Perhaps I may allow, the Dean
Had too much satire in his vein,
And seemed determin'd not to starve it,
Because no age could more deserve it.
Yet, malice never was him aim;
He lash'd 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 abhorr'd that senseless tribe
Who call it humour when they jibe:
He spar'd a hump, or crooked nose,
Whose owners set not up for beaux,
True genuine dullness moved his pity,
Unless it offered to be witty.