Heaven be thanked, we live in such an age, When no man dies for love, but on the stage.
But love's a malady without a cure.
The love of liberty with life is given, And life itself the inferior gift of Heaven.
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.
Never was patriot yet, but was a fool.