Time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a "grand peut-etre"-but it is still a grand one. Everybody clings to it-the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.

Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others.

The drying up a single tear has more Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, Tis that I may not weep.

A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty

Hereditary Bondsmen! know ye not Who would be free themselves must strike the blow?

Tis very certain the desire of life Prolongs it.

Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come.

And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but The truth in masquerade; and I defy Historians-heroes- lawyers-priests, to put A fact without some leaven of a lie.