War Is A Trade Of Kings.

Bankrupt Of Life, Yet Prodigal Of Ease.

Our Souls Sit Close And Silently Within, And Their Own Web From Their Own Entrails Spin; And When Eyes Meet Far Off, Our Sense Is Such, That, Spider-like, We Feel The Tenderest Touch.

Trust Reposed In Noble Natures Obliges Them The More.

The Fool Of Nature Stood With Stupid Eyes And Gaping Mouth, That Testified Surprise.

Good Sense And Good-nature Are Never Separated, Though The Ignorant World Has Thought Otherwise. Good-nature, By Which I Mean Beneficence And Candor, Is The Product Of Right Reason.