He Who Fights And Runs Away May

Creation's Heir, The World, The World Is Mine!

Here Let Me Sit In Sorrow For Mankind.

O Friendship! Thou Fond Soother Of The Human Breast, To Thee We Fly In Every Calamity; To Thee The Wretched Seek For Succor; On Thee The Care-tired Son Of Misery Fondly Relies; From Thy Kind Assistance The Unfortunate Always Hopes Relief, And May Be Sure Of--disappointment.

Blest Be Those Feasts, With Simple Plenty Crowned, Where All The Ruddy Family Around Laugh At The Jests Or Pranks That Never Fail Or Sigh With Pity At Some Mournful Tale.

A Mind Too Vigorous And Active, Serves Only To Consume The Body To Which It Is Joined.