Thieves at home must hang; but he that puts Into his overgorged and bloated purse The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.
Most satirists are indeed a public scourge; Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge; Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse.