Variety's the source of joy below, From whence still fresh-revolving pleasures flow, In books and love the mind one end pursues, And only change the expiring flames renews.
So comes a reck'ning when the banquet's o'er, The dreadful reckn'ning, and men smile no more.
Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil O'er books consumed the midnight oil?
To shoot at crows is powder flung away.
No retreat. No retreat. They must conquer or die who've no retreat.
Who friendship with a knave hath made, Is judged a partner in the trade.