There Is Throats To Be Cut, And

The Crown O' The Earth Doth Melt. My Lord! O, Wither'd Is The Garland Of The War, The Soldier's Pole Is Fall'n: Young Boys And Girls Are Level Now With Men; The Odds Is Gone, And There Is Nothing Left Remarkable Beneath The Visiting Moon.

O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As Death!

Thanks, Sir; All The Rest Is Mute.

And Simple Truth Miscalled Simplicity

Virtue Itself Scapes Not Calumnious Strokes.