Truth's fountains may be clear-her streams are muddy, And cut through such canals of contradiction, That she must often navigate o'er fiction.

Tis very puzzling on the brink Of what is called Eternity to stare, And know no more of what is here, than there.

Alas! the love of Women! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing.

Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.

I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.

The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses who pull; Each tugs it a different way,- And the greatest of all is John Bull!

One hates an author that's all author-fellows In foolscap uniforms turned up with ink, So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, One don't know what to say to them, or think, Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows.

All Giggle, Blush, half Pertness and half Pout.

Eat, drink and love; the rest's not worth a fillip.

Man, being responsible, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.