I have a passion for the name of "Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me, And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be.

There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.

Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.

But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent, Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race. There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life, Yet loathe the banquet which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse. Thy victims ere they yet expire Shall know the demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem.

For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

Next to dressing for a rout or ball, undressing is a woe.

Be hypocritical, be cautious, be not what you seem but always what you see.