War's A Game, Which, Were

The Man That Dares Traduce, Because He Can With Safety To Himself, Is Not A Man.

The Slaves Of Custom And Established Mode, With Pack-horse Constancy We Keep The Road Crooked Or Straight, Through Quags Or Thorny Dells, True To The Jingling Of Our Leader's Bells.

Ever Let The Fancy Roam, Pleasure Never Is At Home.

Sends Nature Forth The Daughter Of The Skies... To Dance On Earth, And Charm All Human Eyes.

Could He With Reason Murmur At His Case, Himself Sole Author Of His Own Disgrace?