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A man may cry, Church! Church! at ev'ry word,
With no pore piety than other people--
A daw's not reckoned a religious bird
Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple.
A mechanic his labor will often discard
If the rate of his pay he dislikes;
But a clock,--and its case is uncommonly hard,--
Will continue to work though it strikes.
A name, it has more than nominal worth,
And belongs to good or bad luck at birth.
Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
At night, to his own sharp fancies a prey,
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way,
Tormenting himself with his prickles.
Behold him in conceited circles sail,
Strutting and dancing and now planted stiff,
In all his pomp of pageantry, as if
He felt the eyes of Europe on his tail.
Boughs are daily rifled
By the gusty thieves,
And the book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.
But, oh! the love that gold must crown!
Comfort and indolence are cronies.
Coquetry is the champagne of love.
Death has left on her,
Only the beautiful.
Evil is wrought by want of thought
As well as want of heart.
Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.
For man may pious texts repeat,
And yet religion have no inward seat.
Fuss is the froth of business.
Half the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.
He comes to the world, as a gentleman comes
To a lodging ready furnished.
How bless'd the heart that has a friend
A sympathizing ear to lend
To troubles too great to smother?
For as ale and porter, when flat, are restor'd
Till a sparkling, bubbling head they afford,
So sorrow is cheer'd by being pour'd
From one vessel into another.
Hundreds of men were turned into beasts,
Like the guests at Circe's horrible feasts,
By the magic of ale and cider.
Just as the felon condemn'd to die--
With a very natural loathing--
Leaving the sheriff to dream of ropes,
From his gloomy cell in a vision elopes,
To caper on sunny greens and slopes,
Instead of the dance upon nothing.
Look here, he cries (to give him words):
Thou feathered clay, thou scum of birds!
Look here, thou vile, predestined sinner,
Doomed to be roasted for a dinner.
Mere verbiage,--it is not worth a carrot!
Why Socrates or Plato--where's the odds?--
Once taught a jay to supplicate the Gods,
And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!
O, very gloomy is the House of Woe,
Where tears are falling while the bell is knelling,
With all the dark solemnities which show
That Death is in the dwelling!
O, very, very dreary is the room
Where Love, domestic Love, no longer nestles,
But smitten by the common stroke of doom,
The corpse lies on the trestles!
Of all the know-nothing persons in this world, commend us to the man who has "never known a day's illness." He is a moral dunce, one who has lost the greatest lesson in life; who has skipped the finest lecture in that great school of humanity, the sick-chamber.
Oh, happy, happy, thrice happy state,
When such a bright Planet governs the fate
Of a pair of united lovers!
'Tis theirs' in spite of the Serpent's hiss.
To enjoy the pure primeval kiss
With as much of the old original bliss
As mortality ever recovers!
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