Nothing can confound a wise man more than laughter from a dunce.

I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.

Happiness was born a twin.

Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.

The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.

But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton; And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.

Come what may, I have been blest.