Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.

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!

Comfort and indolence are cronies.

O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.

Fuss is the froth of business.