A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744)

I

But our Great Turks in wit must reign alone

And ill can bear a Brother on the Throne.

II

Wit is like faith by such warm Fools profest

Who to be saved by one, must damn the rest.

III

Some who grow dull religious strait commence

And gain in morals what they lose in sence.

IV

Wits starve as useless to a Common weal

While Fools have places purely for their Zea.

V

Now wits gain praise by copying other wits

As one Hog lives on what another sh—.

VI

Wou’d you your writings to some Palates fit

Purged all you verses from the sin of wit

For authors now are so conceited grown

They praise no works but what are like their own.

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