For Satyre, that most needful part of our Poetry, it has of late been more abus’d, and is grown more degenerate than any other; most commonly, like a Sword in the hands of a Madman, it runs a Tilt at all manner of Persons without any sort of distinction or reason; and so ill-guided is this furious Career, that the Thrusts are most aim’d where the Enemy is best arm’d.
Understandings seem perfect Solids, as dead to Wit and as insensible of Reason as if their Souls and their Bodies (according to Hobbes’s Philosophy) were both made of the same stuff and equally impenetrable.
