From Kings To Cobblers 'tis The Same;

Thus Shadow Owes Its Birth To Light.

Give Me, Kind Heaven, A Private Station, A Mind Serene For Contemplation.

Is There No Hope? The Sick Man Said, The Silent Doctor Shook His Head, And Took His Leave With Signs Of Sorrow, Despairing Of His Fee To-morrow.

Whoever Heard A Man Of Fortune In England Talk Of The Necessaries Of Life? . . . Whether We Can Afford It Or No, We Must Have Superfluities.

So Comes A Reck'ning When The Banquet's O'er, The Dreadful Reckn'ning, And Men Smile No More.