Humor e Ironia

“Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed” was the ninth beatitude.

But thousands die, without or this or that, Die, and endow a college, or a cat.

What dire offense from amorous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things!

Life is a jest; and all things show it. I thought so once; but now I know it.

From wine what sudden friendship springs!

Those who in quarrels interpose Must often wipe a bloody nose.

In every age and clime we see Two of a trade can never agree.

Hail, fellow, well met, All dirty and wet: Find out if you can, Who’s master, who’s man.

So, naturalists observe, a flea Hath smaller fleas that on him prey; And these have smaller still to bite ’em; And so proceed ad infinitum. Thus every poet, in his kind, Is bit by him that comes behind.

Conversation is but carving! Give no more to every guest Than he’s able to digest. Give him always of the prime, And but little at a time. Carve to all but just enough, Let them neither starve nor stuff, And that you may have your due, Let your neighbor carve for you.

Yet malice never was his aim; He lash’d the vice but spar’d 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 humor when they gibe.

A set of phrases learnt by rote; A passion for a scarlet coat; When at a play to laugh, or cry, Yet cannot tell the reason why: Never to hold her tongue a minute; While all she prates has nothing in it.

For conversation well endu’d; She calls it witty to be rude; And, placing raillery in railing, Will tell aloud your greatest failing.

Behold his funeral appears, Nor widow’s sighs, nor orphan’s tears, Wont at such times each heart to pierce, Attend the progress of his hearse. And what of that? his friends may say, He had those honors in his day. True to his profit and his pride, He made them weep before he died.

’Tis an old maxim in the schools, That flattery’s 1 the food of fools; Yet now and then your men of wit Will condescend to take a bit.

All men would be tyrants if they could.

And of all plagues with which mankind are curs’d, Ecclesiastic tyranny’s the worst.

In their religion they are so uneven, That each man goes his own byway to heaven.

From this amphibious ill-born mob began That vain, ill-natur’d thing, an Englishman.

Wherever God erects a house of prayer, The Devil always builds a chapel there; And ’twill be found, upon examination, The latter has the largest congregation.

Much malice mingled with a little wit.

The rest to some faint meaning make pretense, But Shadwell 5 never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell’s genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day.

Made still a blund’ring kind of melody; Spurr’d boldly on, and dash’d through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in. Free from all meaning, whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.

Who think too little, and who talk too much.