Samuel Butler

And poets by their sufferings grow,--
As if there were no more to do,
To make a read more

And poets by their sufferings grow,--
As if there were no more to do,
To make a poet excellent,
But only want and discontent.

Besides 'tis known he could speak Greek
As naturally as pigs squeak;
That Latin was no more read more

Besides 'tis known he could speak Greek
As naturally as pigs squeak;
That Latin was no more difficile
That to a blackbird 'tis to whistle.

He could raise scruples dark and nice,
And after solve 'em in a trice;
As if Divinity read more

He could raise scruples dark and nice,
And after solve 'em in a trice;
As if Divinity had catch'd
The itch, on purpose to be scratched.

As quick as lightning, in the breach
Just in the place where honour's lodged,
As wise philosophers read more

As quick as lightning, in the breach
Just in the place where honour's lodged,
As wise philosophers have judged,
Because a kick in that place more
Hurts honour than deep wounds before.

Honor is like a widow, won
With brisk attempt and putting on.

Honor is like a widow, won
With brisk attempt and putting on.