Satire's my weapon, but I'm too discreet

To run amuck, and tilt at all I meet.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Satires, Epistles, and Odes of Horace. Satire i. Book ii. Line 69.

A weapon that comes down as still

As snowflakes fall upon the sod;

But executes a freeman's will,

As lightning does the will of God;

And from its force nor doors nor locks

Can shield you,—'t is the ballot-box.

John Pierpont (1785-1866): A Word from a Petitioner.