He's A Soldier; And For One To

If Ever (as That Ever May Be Near) You Meet In Some Fresh Cheek The Power Of Fancy, Then Shall You Know The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen, Arrows Make.

Fair, Kind, And True, Have Often Lived Alone.

Their Savage Eyes Turned To A Modest Gaze By The Sweet Power Of Music.

Headstrong Liberty Is Lashed With Woe.

To Kill, I Grant, Is Sin's Extremest Gust; But, In Defence, By Mercy, 'tis Most Just.