But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream.

Dreading that climax of all human ills the inflammation of his weekly bills.

And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

Armenian is the language to speak with God.

The drying up a single tear has more, of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.

The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.