For When Was Public Virtue To Be

Remorse, The Fatal Egg That Pleasure Laid.

We Turn To Dust, And All Our Mightiest Works Die Too.

How Various His Employments Whom The World Calls Idle; And Who Justly In Return Esteems That Busy World An Idler Too!

They Best Can Judge A Poet's Worth, Who Oft Themselves Have Known The Pangs Of A Poetic Birth By Labours Of Their Own.

War's A Game, Which, Were Their Subjects Wise, Kings Would Not Play At.