Some There Be That Shadows

I Could Be Well Content To Entertain The Lag-end Of My Life With Quiet Hours.

Did He So Often Lodge In Open Field, In Winter's Cold And Summer's Parching Heat, To Conquer France, His True Inheritance?

Is There No Pity Sitting In The Clouds, That Sees Into The Bottom Of My Grief?

Tis But A Base, Ignoble Mind That Mounts No Higher Than A Bird Can Soar.

Bounty, Being Free Itself, Thinks All Others So.