Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.

War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.

Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.

The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear; And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.

But, oh, Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art, of all Thy gifts, Thyself thy crown!

To impute our recovery to medicine, and to carry our view no further, is to rob God of His honor, and is saying in effect that He has parted with the keys of life and death, and, by giving to a drug the power to heal us, has placed our lives out of His own reach.

As if the world and they were hand and glove.