When A Man Is Tried Of London,

Life Protracted Is Protracted Woe.

Cruel With Guilt, And Daring With Despair, The Midnight Murderer Bursts The Faithless Bar; Invades The Sacred Hour Of Silent Rest And Leaves, Unseen, A Dagger In Your Breast.

A Minute Analysis Of Life At Once Destroys That Splendor Which Dazzles The Imagination. Whatsoever Grandeur Can Display, Or Luxury Enjoy, Is Procured By Offices Of Which The Mind Shrinks From The Contemplation. All The Delicacies Of The Table May Be Traced Back To The Shambles And The Dunghill; All Magnificence Of Building Was Hewn From The Quarry, And All The Pomp Of Ornament Dug From Among The Damps And Darkness Of The Mine.

They That Have Grown Old In A Single State Are Generally Found To Be Morose, Fretful And Captious; Tenacious Of Their Own Practices And Maxims; Soon Offended By Contradiction Or Negligence; And Impatient Of Any Association But With Those That Will Watch Their Nod, And Submit Themselves To Unlimited Authority.

That Man Is Never Happy For The Present Is So True, That All His Relief From Unhappiness Is Only Forgetting Himself For A Little While. Life Is A Progress From Want To Want, Not From Enjoyment To Enjoyment.