Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.

Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.

Let no man trust the first false step of guilt; it hangs upon a precipice, whose steep descent in last perdition ends.

Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

When men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more.