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Si le forte metx gravis uret sarcina chartae,
A. You told me, I remember, glory, built On selfish principles, is shame and guilt; The deeds, that men admire as half divine, Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears The laurel that the very lightning spares; Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, And eats into his bloody sword like rust.
B. I grant that, men continuing what they are, Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war. And never meant the rule should be applied
To him, that fights with justice on his side.
VOL. I. B
Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews,
But let eternal infamy pursue
Then view him self-proclaim'd in a gazette
Then grace the bony phantom in their stead
A. Tis your belief the world was made for man; Kings do but reason on the selfsame plan: Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn, Who think, or seem to think, man made for them.
B. Seldom, alas! the pow'r of logic reigns
Man made for kings! those optics are but dim,