The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, Shall thro' the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations under ground.

The multitude is always wrong.

Let us not write at a loose rambling rate, in hope the world will wink at all our faults.

I will not quarrel with a slight mistake, Such as our nature's frailty may excuse.

Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense.

Grief dejects and wrings the tortured soul.

What you keep by you, you may change and mend but words, once spoken, can never be recalled.