As Poetry Is The Harmony Of Words,

The People Have A Right Supreme To Make Their Kings, For Kings Are Made For Them. All Empire Is No More Than Pow'r In Trust, Which When Resum'd, Can Be No Longer Just. Successionm For The General Good Design'd, In Its Own Wrong A Nation Cannot Bind.

Pity Only On Fresh Objects Stays, But With The Tedious Sight Of Woes Decays.

Kings Fight For Empires, Madmen For Applause.

That Gloomy Outside, Like A Rusty Chest, Contains The Shoring Treasure Of A Soul Resolved And Brave.

Imitators Are But A Servile Kind Of Cattle.