My Hope, My Heaven, My Trust Must

One Or Two Of These Scoundrel Statesmen Should Be Shot Once A-year, Just To Keep The Others On Their Good Behavior.

Thus Aged Men, Full Loth And Slow, The Vanities Of Life Forego, And Count Their Youthful Follies O'er, Till Memory Lends Her Light No More.

The Misery Of Keeping A Dog Is His Dying So Soon. But, To Be Sure, If He Lived For Fifty Years And Then Died, What Would Become Of Me?

There Never Will Exist Anything Permanently Noble And Excellent In The Character Which Is A Stranger To Resolute Self-denial.

Despite Those Titles, Power, And Pelf, The Wretch, Concentred All In Self, Living, Shall Forfeit Fair Renown, And, Doubly Dying, Shall Go Down To The Vile Dust, From Whence He Sprung, Unwept, Unhonor'd, And Unsung.