Pleasure Is Labour Too, And Tires As

The Things That Mount The Rostrum With A Skip, And Then Skip Down Again, Pronounce A Text, Cry Hem; And Reading What They Never Wrote Just Fifteen Minutes, Huddle Up Their Work, And With A Well-bred Whisper Close The Scene!

War's A Game, Which, Were Their Subjects Wise, Kings Would Not Play At.

I Am Monarch Of All I Survey, My Right There Is None To Dispute, From The Centre All Round To The Sea, I Am Lord Of The Fowl And The Brute.

Accomplishments Have Taken Virtue's Place, And Wisdom Falls Before Exterior Grace.

Ever Let The Fancy Roam, Pleasure Never Is At Home.