No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
When was ever honey made with one bee in a hive?
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.
The best of friends fall out, and so his teeth had done some years ago.
A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.
And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.