By Flatterers Besieged And So Obliging That

And Little Eagles Wave Their Wings In Gold.

Wit Is The Lowest Form Of Humor.

And Not A Vanity Is Given In Vain.

But Would You Sing, And Rival Orpheus' Strain. The Wond'ring Forests Soon Should Dance Again; The Moving Mountains Hear The Powerful Call. And Headlong Streams Hand Listening In Their Fall!

What Riches Give Us Let Us Then Inquire: Meat, Fire, And Clothes. What More? Meat, Clothes, And Fire. Is This Too Little?