Midas, they say, possessed the art of old; Of turning whatsoe'er he touch'd to gold; This modern statesmen can reverse with ease - Touch them with gold, they'll turn to what you please.
Thus every dog at last will have his day -
He who this morning smiled, at night may sorrow;
The grub today's a butterfly tomorrow.
O delicious kiss,
Why thou so sudden art gone?
Lost in the moment thou art won?
To wear long faces, just as if our Maker,
The God of goodness, was an undertaker.
The turnpike road to people's hearts, I find,
Lies through their mouths or I mistake mankind.
With vivid words your just conceptions grace,
Much truth compressing in a narrow space;
Then many shall peruse, but few complain,
And envy frown, and critics snarl in vain.
Some one has said of a fine and honorable old age, that it was the childhood of immortality.
The greatest men May ask a foolish question, now and then.
People may have too much of a good thing:Full as an egg of wisdom thus I sing.
No, let the monarch's bags and others holdThe flattering, mighty, nay, al-mighty gold.
It is money makes the mare to trot.
A fellow in a market town, Most musical, cried razors up and down.
Care to our coffin adds a nail, no doubt, And every grin so merry draws one out.
Enjoy thy stream, O harmless fish; And when an angler for his dish, Through gluttony's vile sin, Attempts, the wretch, to pull thee out, God give thee strength, O gentle trout, To pull the rascal in!
Every gift, though it be small, is in reality great if given with affection.
What rage for fame attends both great and small! Better be damned than mentioned not at all.
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