Feed The Musician, And He's Out Of

Void Of All Honor, Avaricious, Rash, The Daring Tribe Compound Their Boasted Trash Tincture Of Syrup, Lotion, Drop, Or Pill; All Tempt The Sick To Trust The Lying Bill.

In Idle Wishes, Fools Supinely Stay. Be There A Will And Wisdom Finds A Way.

To Every Class We Have A School Assign'd, Rules For All Ranks, And Food For Every Mind: Yet One There Is, That Small Regard To Rule Or Study Pays, And Still Is Deem'd A School; That, Where A Deaf, Poor, Patient Widow Sits, And Awes Some Thirty Infants As She Knits; Infants Of Humble, Busy Wives, Who Pay Some Trifling Price For Freedom Through The Day. At This Good Matron's Hut The Children Meet, Who Thus Becomes The Mother Of The Street.

In This Wild World The Fondest And The Best Are The Most Tried, Most Troubled And Distress'd.

The Coward Never On Himself Relies, But To An Equal For Assistance Flies.