War Is The Trade Of Kings.

…so When The Last And Dreadful Hour This Crumbling Pageant Shall Devour, The Trumpet Shall Be Heard On High, The Dead Shall Live, The Living Die, And Music Shall Untune The Sky

There Is A Proud Modesty In Merit.

Politicians Neither Love Nor Hate.

Sure There Is None But Fears A Future State; And When The Most Obdurate Swear They Do Not, Their Trembling Hearts Belie Their Boasting Tongues.

A Satirical Poet Is The Check Of The Laymen On Bad Priests.