When Eve upon the first of Men The apple press'd with specious cant, Oh! what a thousand pities then That Adam was not Adamant!

Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.

Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!

No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.

The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!

A moment's thinking is an hour in words.

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!