A Certain Portion Of The Human Race

Oh! God! That Bread Should Be So Dear, And Flesh And Blood So Cheap!

There's A Double Beauty Whenever A Swan Swims On A Lake With Her Double Thereon.

The Moon, The Moon, So Silver And Cold, Her Fickle Temper Has Oft Been Told, Now Shade--now Bright And Sunny-- But Of All The Lunar Things That Change, The One That Shows Most Fickle And Strange, And Takes The Most Eccentric Range, Is The Moon--so Called--of Honey!

For Man May Pious Texts Repeat, And Yet Religion Have No Inward Seat

What Joy Have I In June's Return? My Feet Are Parched-my Eyeballs Burn, I Scent No Flowery Gust; But Faint The Flagging Zephyr Springs, With Dry Macadam On Its Wings, And Turns Me 'dust To Dust.'