Men Do Not Suspect Faults Which They

Year Chases Year, Decay Pursues Decay, Still Drops Some Joy From With'ring Life Away; New Forms Arise, And Diff'rent Views Engage

These Are The Men Who, Without Virtue, Labour, Or Hazard, Are Growing Rich, As Their Country Is Impoverished; They Rejoice, When Obstinacy Or Ambition Adds Another Year To Slaughter And Devastation; And Laugh, From Their Desks, At Bravery And Science, While They Are Adding Figure To Figure, And Cipher To Cipher, Hoping For A New Contract From A New Armament, And Computing The Profits Of A Siege Or Tempest.

No Man But A Blockhead Ever Wrote Except For Money.

Life Protracted Is Protracted Woe.

It Is Very Strange, And Very Melancholy, That The Paucity Of Human Pleasures Should Persuade Us Ever To Call Hunting One Of Them.