Humor e Ironia

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.”

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

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

Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

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

“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.

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

A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead.

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

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

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.

Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Yet wit ne’er tastes, and beauty ne’er enjoys.

And he himself one vile antithesis.

Let Sporus tremble—“What? that thing of silk, Sporus, that mere white curd of ass’s milk? Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel? Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?”

Eye Nature’s walks, shoot folly as it flies, And catch the manners living as they rise: Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; But vindicate the ways of God to man.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come: Knock as you please, there’s nobody at home.