A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.

A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.

A moment's thinking is an hour in words.

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.

There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.

How widely its agencies vary,- To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,- As even its minted coins express, Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary.

She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.