Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!

That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.

Exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year.

There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.

Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.

This is the patent-age of new inventions For killing bodies, and for saving souls, All propagated with the best intentions; Sir Humphrey Davy's lantern, by which coals Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.

I deny nothing, but doubt everything.