A life of labour, like this soldier here, His wondrous faculties bestow'd in vain Be moulded by his fate till he becomes A mere machine of murder.
Both busily our needful food to win, We work as nature taught, with ceaseless pains, Thy bowels thou dost spin, I spin my brains.  A life of labour, like this soldier here, His wondrous faculties bestow'd in vain Be moulded by his fate till he becomes A mere machine of murder.  TO A FRIEND SETTLED IN THE COUNTRY.