Swift was the race, but short the time to run.
Fortune, that with malicious joyDoes man her slave oppress,Proud of her office to destroy,Is seldom pleasd to bless.
Fowls, by winter forced, forsake the floods, and wing their hasty flight to happier lands.
For your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.
Either be wholly slaves or wholly free.
Raw in the fields the rude militia swarms, Mouth without hands; maintained at vast expense, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence.