No Retreat. No Retreat. They Must Conquer

When If Or Chance Or Hunger's Powerful Sway Directs The Roving Trout This Fatal Way, He Greedily Sucks In The Twining Bait, And Tugs And Nibbles The Fallacious Meat. Now, Happy Fisherman; Now Twitch The Line! How Thy Rod Bends! Behold, The Prize Is Thine!

To Shoot At Crows Is Powder Flung Away.

Who Talks Much, Must Talk In Vain.

From Kings To Cobblers 'tis The Same; Bad Servants Wound Their Masters' Fame.

Give Me, Kind Heaven, A Private Station, A Mind Serene For Contemplation.