Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
What female heart can gold despise? What cat 's averse to fish?
I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes.