Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs.
Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ill a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay; Princes and Lords may flourish, or may fade: A breath can make them, as a breath has made; but a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed can never be supplied.
Hope, like the gleaming taper's light, Adorns and cheers our way; And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter ray.
Don't let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter.