Feed The Musician, And He's Out Of

The Coward Never On Himself Relies, But To An Equal For Assistance Flies.

In Idle Wishes, Fools Supinely Stay. Be There A Will And Wisdom Finds A Way.

Say, Ye Oppress'd By Some Fantastic Woes, Some Jarring Nerve That Baffles Your Repose; Who Press The Downy Couch, While Slaves Advance With Timid Eye, To Read The Distant Glance; Who With Sad Prayers The Weary Doctor Tease, To Name The Nameless Ever-new Disease; Who With Mock Patience Dire Complaints Endure, Which Real Pain And That Alone Can Cure; How Would Ye Bear In Real Pain To Lie, Despised, Neglected, Left Alone To Die? How Would Ye Bear To Draw Your Latest Breath, Where All That's Wretched Paves The Way For Death?

't Was Good Advice, And Meant, My Son, Be Good.

Who Calls A Lawyer Rogue, May Find, Too Lateupon One Of These Depends His Whole Estate.