Men Are But Children Of A Larger

Raw In The Fields The Rude Militia Swarms, Mouth Without Hands; Maintained At Vast Expense, In Peace A Charge, In War A Weak Defence.

Like Pilgrims To Th' Appointed Place We Tend; The World's An Inn, And Death The Journey's End.

He Wants Worth Who Dares Not Praise A Foe.

'tis A Good Thing To Laugh At Any Rate; And If A Straw Can Tickle A Man, It Is An Instrument Of Happiness.

Not To Ask Is Not Be Denied.