Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies.
Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice - A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.
At every trifle take offense, that always shows great pride or little sense.
Sometimes virtue starves while vice is fed.
In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fixed, 'tis fixed as in a frost.
All nature's diff'rence keeps all nature's peace.