If Others Had Not Been Foolish, We

When Nations Grow Old The Arts Grow Cold And Commerce Settles On Every Tree

They Who Forgive Most Shall Be Most Forgiven.

The Child's Toys And The Old Man's Reasons Are The Fruits Of Two Seasons.

The Crow Wished Everything Was Black, The Owl, That Everything Was White.

I Wander Thro' Each Charter'd Street, Near Where The Charter'd Thames Does Flow, And Mark In Every Face I Meet Marks Of Weakness, Marks Of Woe. In Every Cry Of Every Man, In Every Infant's Cry Of Fear, In Every Voice, In Every Ban, The Mind-forg'd Manacles I Hear. How The Chimney-sweeper's Cry Every Black'ning Church Appalls; And The Hapless Soldier's Sigh Runs In Blood Down Palace Walls. But Most Thro' Midnight Streets I Hear How The Youthful Harlot's Curse Blasts The New Born Infant's Tear, And Blights With Plagues The Marriage Hearse.