Beauties, When Disposed To Sleep, Should From

Wine, Like The Rising Sun, Possession Gains, And Drives The Mist Of Dullness From The Brains, The Gloomy Vapor From The Spirit Flies, And Views Of Gaiety And Gladness Rise.

That All Men Would Be Cowards If They Dare, Some Men We Know Have Courage To Declare.

This, Books Can Do-nor This Alone; They Give New Views To Life, And Teach Us How To Live; They Soothe The Grieved, The Stubborn They Chastise; Fools They Admonish, And Confirm The Wise. Their Aid They Yield To All: They Never Shun The Man Of Sorrow, Nor The Wretch Undone; Unlike The Hard, The Selfish, And The Proud, They Fly Not Sullen From The Suppliant Crowd; Nor Tell To Various People Various Things, But Show To Subjects, What They Show To Kings.

Experience Finds Few Of The Scenes That Lively Hope Designs.

Say, Ye Oppress'd By Some Fantastic Woes, Some Jarring Nerve That Baffles Your Repose; Who Press The Downy Couch, While Slaves Advance With Timid Eye, To Read The Distant Glance; Who With Sad Prayers The Weary Doctor Tease, To Name The Nameless Ever-new Disease; Who With Mock Patience Dire Complaints Endure, Which Real Pain And That Alone Can Cure; How Would Ye Bear In Real Pain To Lie, Despised, Neglected, Left Alone To Die? How Would Ye Bear To Draw Your Latest Breath, Where All That's Wretched Paves The Way For Death?