Deceivers Are The Most Dangerous

To The House Of A Friend If You're Pleased To Retire, You Must All Things Admit, You Must All Things Admire; You Must Pay With Observance The Price Of Your Treat, You Must Eat What Is Praised, And Must Praise What You Eat.

Old Peter Grimes Made Fishing His Employ; His Wife He Cabined With Him And His Boy, And Seemed That Life Laborious To Enjoy.

The Wife Was Pretty, Trifling, Childish, Weak; She Could Not Think, But Would Not Cease To Speak.

Her Air, Her Manners, All Who Saw Admir'd; Courteous Though Coy, And Gentle Though Retir'd; The Joy Of Youth And Health Her Eyes Display'd, And Ease Of Heart Her Every Look Convey'd.

Say, Ye Oppress'd By Some Fantastic Woes, Some Jarring Nerve That Baffles Your Repose; Who Press The Downy Couch, While Slaves Advance With Timid Eye, To Read The Distant Glance; Who With Sad Prayers The Weary Doctor Tease, To Name The Nameless Ever-new Disease; Who With Mock Patience Dire Complaints Endure, Which Real Pain And That Alone Can Cure; How Would Ye Bear In Real Pain To Lie, Despised, Neglected, Left Alone To Die? How Would Ye Bear To Draw Your Latest Breath, Where All That's Wretched Paves The Way For Death?