The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few!
Nothing can confound a wise man more than laughter from a dunce.
There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.
But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.
Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.
May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.