Tis an old lesson; time approves it true, And those who know it best, deplore it most; When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost.

As winds come whispering lightly from the West, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene.

The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour.

Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!