Ill Fares The Land, To Hastening Ills

Every Absurdity Has A Champion To Defend It.

To Be Poor, And To Seem Poor, Is A Certain Method Never To Rise.

The Wretch Condemn'd With Life To Part, Still, Still On Hope Relies; And Every Pang That Rends The Heart Bids Expectation Rise.

We Are All Sure Of Two Things, At Least; We Shall Suffer And We Shall All Die.

So The Loud Torrent, And The Whirlwind's Roar, But Bind Him To His Native Mountains More.