In This Wild World The Fondest And

Better To Love Amiss Than Nothing To Have Loved.

Habit With Him Was All The Test Of Truth; It Must Be Right: I've Done It From My Youth.

Feel You The Barren Flattery Of A Rhyme? Can Poets Soothe You, When You Pine For Bread, By Winding Myrtle Round Your Ruin'd Shed?

From Powerful Causes Spring The Empiric's Gains, Man's Love Of Life, His Weakness, And His Pains; These First Induce Him The Vile Trash To Try, Then Lend His Name, That Other Men May Buy.

A Club There Is Of Smokers--dare You Come To That Close, Clouded, Hot, Narcotic Room? When, Midnight Past, The Very Candles Seem Dying For Air, And Give A Ghastly Gleam; When Curling Fumes In Lazy Wreaths Arise, And Prosing Topers Rub Their Winking Eyes.