Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.
Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.
One to destroy, is murder by the law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.