Humor e Ironia

The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, “Some day you may lose them all”— He replied, “Fish fiddle-de-dee!”

It’s a fact the whole world knows, That Pobbles are happier without their toes.

“I would be your wife most gladly!” (Here she twirled her fingers madly),

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! Who has written such volumes of stuff! Some think him ill-tempered and queer, But a few think him pleasant enough.

There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said: “It is just as I feared! Two owls and a hen, Four larks and a wren Have all built their nests in my beard.”

Society is now one polish’d horde, Formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.

That happiness for man—the hungry sinner!— Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye.

’Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print; A book’s a book, although there’s nothing in ’t.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

“Ha! ha!” quoth he, “full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row.”

I ask’d a thief to steal me a peach: He turned up his eyes. I ask’d a lithe lady to lie her down: Holy and meek, she cries. As soon as I went An angel came. He wink’d at the thief And smil’d at the dame— And without one word said Had a peach from the tree, And still as a maid Enjoy’d the lady.

A true German can’t stand the French, Yet willingly he drinks their wines.

A fool must now and then be right, by chance.

His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock it never is at home.

Here Skugg lies snug As a bug in a rug.

A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits.

A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead.

Next o’er his books his eyes began to roll, In pleasing memory of all he stole.

Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale, Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, And solid pudding against empty praise.

Whether thou choose Cervantes’ serious air, Or laugh and shake in Rabelais’ easy chair.

I am his Highness’ 8 dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

Satire’s my weapon, but I’m too discreet To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.

And he himself one vile antithesis.