WIT

Time his fervent petulance may cool; For though he is a wit, he is no fool. In time he'll learn to use, not waste his sense, Nor make a frailty of an exellence. His brisk attack on block heads we should prize, Were not his jest as a flippant with the wise. He spares nor friend nor foe; but calls to mind, Like dooms—day, all the faults of all mankind.

What tho' wit tickles? tickling is unsafe, If still 'tis painful while it makes us laugh. Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?

Parts may be prais'd; good-nature is ador'd; Then draw your wit as seldom as your sword, And never on the weak; or you'll appear, As there no hero, no great genius here. As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen; Both pain us least when exquisitely keen. The fame men give is for the joy they find; Dull is the jester, when the joke's unkind.