Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
O Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
Society is now one polished horde, Formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and the Bored.
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.
Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire with angels shared, by Allah given to lift from earth our low desire.
I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.
The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, And for the bass, the beast can only bellow; In fact, he had no singing education, An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow.
O gold! I still prefer thee unto paper which makes bank credit like a bank of vapour.