Samuel Johnson

Strange! that this general fraud from day to day Should fill the world with wretches undetected.

A thousand horrid Prodigies foretold it. A feeble government, eluded Laws, A factious Populace, luxurious Nobles, And all the maladies of stinking states.

Unmoved though Witlings sneer and Rivals rail, Studious to please, yet not ashamed to fail. He scorns the meek address, the suppliant strain. With merit needless, and without it vain. In Reason, Nature, Truth, he dares to trust: Ye Fops, …

This mournful truth is ev'rywhere confessed — Slow rises worth, by poverty depressed.

Of all the Griefs that harrass the Distrest, Sure the most bitter is a scornful Jest

By Numbers here from Shame or Censure free, All Crimes are safe, but hated Poverty. This, only this, the rigid Law persues, This, only this, provokes the snarling Muse.