There Is A Pleasure In Poetic Pains

But War's A Game, Which, Were Their Subjects Wise, Kings Should Not Play At. Nations Would Do Well To Extort Their Truncheons From The Puny Hands Of Heroes, Whose Infirm And Baby Minds Are Gratified With Mischief, And Who Spoil, Because Men Suffer It, Their Toy The World.

Pleasure Admitted In Undue Degree, Enslaves The Will, Nor Leaves The Judgment Free.

Fanaticism, The False Fire Of An Overheated Mind.

O Winter! Ruler Of The Inverted Year, . . . I Crown Thee King Of Intimate Delights, Fireside Enjoyments, Home-born Happiness, And All The Comforts That The Lowly Roof Of Undisturbed Retirement, And The Hours Of Long Uninterrupted Evening, Know.

She That Asks Her Dear Five Hundred Friends, Contemns Them All, And Hates Their Coming.