Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
The best of friends fall out, and so his teeth had done some years ago.
Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.
Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise; But waking flow'rs, At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.
Some sigh for this and that; My wishes don't go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar.
Pity it is to slay the meanest thing.
The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.
What is a modern poet's fate? / To write his thoughts upon a slate; / The critic spits on what is done, / Gives it a wipe - and all is gone.
For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat
Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh-- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint; But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray.
The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!
My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read-- Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a lark instead.
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