A Youth Of Frolic, An Old Age

And Make Each Day A Critic On The Last.

O Peace! How Many Wars Were Waged In Thy Name.

While I Live, No Rich Or Noble Knave Shall Walk The World In Credit To His Grave.

What Can Ennoble Sots, Or Slaves, Or Cowards? Alas! Not All The Blood, Of All The Howards.

And Seem To Walk On Wings, And Tread In Air.