Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.
Glory, built on selfish principles, is shame and guilt.
War's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
Admirals extolled for standing still, or doing nothing with a deal of skill.
A noisy man is always in the right.
Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.
But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings should not play at. Nations would do well To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the world.
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