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

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

The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

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

I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.

The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses that pull, Each tugs in a different way And the greatest of all is John Bull!

He was a man of his times. with one virtue and a thousand crimes. (The Corsair)