Give me, kind heaven, a private station, a mind serene for contemplation.
The luxury of doing good surpasses every other personal enjoyment.
Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined.
Exercise thy lasting youth defends.
What will not luxury taste? Earth, sea, and air, Are daily ransack'd for the bill of fare. Blood stuffed in skins is British Christians' food, And France robs marshes of the croaking brood.
Beasts kill for hunger, men for pay.