Fuss is the froth of business.
O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.
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.