Raw in the fields the rude militia swarms, Mouth without hands; maintained at vast expense, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence.

Even kings but play; and when their part is done, some other, worse or better, mounts the throne.

Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.

For all the happiness mankind can gain Is not in pleasure, but in rest from pain.

All delays are dangerous in war.

Nothing to build, and all things to destroy.

When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.