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All human things are subject to decay,And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obeyThis Flecknoe found, who like Augustus youngWas call'd to empire, and had govern'd longIn prose and verse, was own'd, without disputeThrough all the realms of nonsense, absolute.
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Like pilgrims to the appointed place we tend; The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
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Dreams are but interludes that fancy makes...
Sometimes forgotten things, long cast behind
Rush forward in the brain, and come to mind.
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The people have a right supremeTo make their kings, for Kings are made for them.All Empire is no more than Pow'r in Trust,Which when resum'd, can be no longer just.Successionm for the general good design'd,In its own wrong a Nation cannot bind.
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Beware the fury of a patient man.
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