Pleasure Is Labour Too, And Tires As

Even In The Stifling Bosom Of The Town, A Garden, In Which Nothing Thrives, Has Charms That Soothes The Rich Possessor; Much Consol'd, That Here And There Some Sprigs Of Mournful Mint, Or Nightshade, Or Valerian, Grace The Well He Cultivates.

No Wild Enthusiast Could Rest, Till Half The World Like Him Was Possessed.

Just Knows, And Knows No More, Her Bible True,- A Truth The Brilliant Frenchman Never Knew.

But War's A Game, Which, Were Their Subjects Wise, Kings Should Not Play At. Nations Would Do Well To Extort Their Truncheons From The Puny Hands Of Heroes, Whose Infirm And Baby Minds Are Gratified With Mischief, And Who Spoil, Because Men Suffer It, Their Toy The World.

Some Write A Narrative Of Wars And Feats, Of Heroes Little Known, And Call The Rant A History.