War Is The Trade Of

Like Pilgrims To Th' Appointed Place We Tend; The World's An Inn, And Death The Journey's End.

Pains Of Love Be Sweeter Far Than All Other Pleasures Are.

An Horrible Stillness First Invades Our Ear, And In That Silence We The Tempest Fear.

He With A Graceful Pride, While His Rider Every Hand Survey'd, Sprung Loose, And Flew Into An Escapade; Not Moving Forward, Yet With Every Bound Pressing, And Seeming Still To Quit His Ground.

He Who Trusts A Secret To His Servant Makes His Own Man His Master.