What I do easily-what then? You’ve got
A style I heartily wish _I_ had not.
If I from lack of sense and you from choice
Grieve the judicious and the unwise rejoice,
No equal censure our deserts will suit
We both are fools, but you’re an ape to boot!
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So, Governor, you would not serve again
You find it all is vanity and painOne clump of clover in a field of stubbleOne grain of pleasure in a peck of trouble.‘Tis sad, at your age, having to complainOf disillusion; but the fault is whoseWhen pigmies stumble, wearing giants’ shoes?I humbly told you many moons agoFor high preferment you were all unfit.A clumsy…
Scene-_A lawyer’s dreadful den.
LAWYER.-‘Mornin’. How-de-do?CITIZEN.-Sir, same to you.Called as counsel to retain youIn a case that I’ll explain you.Sad, _so_ sad! Heart almost broke.Hang it! where’s my kerchief? Smoke?Brother, sir, and I, of late,Came into a large estate.Brother’s-h’m, ha,-rather queerSometimes _(tapping forehead) _here.What he needs-you know-a ‘writ’-Something, eh? that will permitMe to manage, sir, in fine,His estate, as…
Let lowly themes engage my humble pen
Be it mine once more the maunderings to traceOf the expounders’ self-directed raceTheir wire-drawn fancies, finically fine,Of diligent vacuity the sign.Let them in jargon of their trade rehearseThe moral meaning of the random verseThat runs spontaneous from the poet’s penTo be half-blotted by ambitious menWho hope with his their meaner names to linkBy writing o’er…
I saw a man who knelt in prayer,
‘I’ll lay my inmost spirit bareTo-day.‘Lord, for to-morrow and its needI do not pray;Let me upon my neighbor feedTo-day.‘Let me my duty duly shirkAnd run awayFrom any form or phase of workTo-day.‘From Thy commands exempted stillLet me obeyThe promptings of my private willTo-day.‘Let me no word profane, no lieUnthinking sayIf anyone is standing byTo-day.‘My secret…
O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand:
What carvest thou?-perchance some grandAnd solemn fancy all thine own.For oft to know the fitting wordSome humble worker God permits.‘Jain Ann Meginnis,Agid 3rd.He givith His beluved fits.’
Well, well, old Father Christmas, is it you,
Less redness in the nose-nay, even some blueWould not, I think, particularly hurt you.When seen close to, not mounted in your car,You look the drunkard and the pig you are.No matter, sit you down, for I am notIn a gray study, as you sometimes find me.Merry? O, no, nor wish to be, God wot,But there’s…