Fool Beckons Fool, And Dunce Awakens Dunce.

Weak Is That Throne, And In Itself Unsound, Which Takes Not Solid Virtue For Its Ground.

Nor Waste Their Sweetness In The Desert Air.

Even In A Hero's Heart Discretion Is The Better Part.

The Scots Are Poor, Cries Surly English Pride; True Is The Charge, Nor By Themselves Denied. Are They Not Then In Strictest Reason Clear, Who Wisely Come To Mend Their Fortunes Here?

Old Age, A Second Child, By Nature Curst With More And Greater Evils Than The First, Weak, Sickly, Full Of Pains: In Ev'ry Breath Railing At Life, And Yet Afraid Of Death.