If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.

Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.

And angling too, that solitary vice, What Izaak Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.