Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader; Some by a place--as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.

Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise!

Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.

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

In general I do not draw well with literary men -- not that I dislike them but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication.