Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!

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.

Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.

O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.

And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.

And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury; To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury - Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.

The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.