Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
Rich with the spoils of time.
Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.
Men will believe anything at all provided they are under no obligation to believe it.