To point their weapons, each at other’s breast,
When the great Enemy, the common Foe,
Though baffled, unsubdued, lays ever wait
For some unguarded pass, to cheat the walls
Not all his dread artillery could breach?
How is each lunge, and ward, of tart reproof,
And bitter repartee—painful to friends—
By th’ Adversary hailed with general yell
Of triumph, or derision! O, my friends!
Believe me, lines of loving charity