Our business in the field of fight, Is not to question, but to prove our might.
But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.
Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?
Sometimes virtue starves while vice is fed.
On wrongs swift vengeance waits.
Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain; awake but one, and in, what myriads rise!