Is There No Hope? The Sick Man

The Careful Insect 'midst His Works I View, Now From The Flowers Exhaust The Fragrant Dew, With Golden Treasures Load His Little Thighs, And Steer His Distant Journey Through The Skies.

From Kings To Cobblers 'tis The Same; Bad Servants Wound Their Masters' Fame.

What Will Not Luxury Taste? Earth, Sea, And Air, Are Daily Ransack'd For The Bill Of Fare. Blood Stuffed In Skins Is British Christians' Food, And France Robs Marshes Of The Croaking Brood.

[gulliver Was Soon Being Read] "from The Cabinet Council To The Nursery".

What Then In Love Can Woman Do? If We Grow Fond They Shun Us. And When We Fly Them, They Pursue: But Leave Us When They've Won Us.