But Thought's The Slave Of Life, And

As You From Crimes Would Pardon'd Be, Let Your Indulgence Set Me Free.

Scarce Can I Speak, My Choler Is So Great. Oh! I Could Hew Up Rocks, And Fight With Flint.

I Humbly Do Beseech Of Your Pardon, For Too Much Loving You

Set We Forward; Let A Roman And A British Ensign Wave Friendly Together. So Through Lud's Town March, And In The Temple Of The Great Jupiter Our Peace We'll Ratify, Seal It With Feasts. Set On There! Never Was A War Did Cease, Ere Bloody Hands Were Washed, With Such A Peace.

How Poor Are They That Have Not Patience! What Wound Did Ever Heal But By Degrees?