Upon a battle-field of learned men
Hundred and fifty were by none divided.
“Now,” said the bishop, “add two-thirds of ten
And so you’ll guess the riddle just as I did.”
is solved by Colenso.
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356
Though the stations of mortals are many
And the last is the head of his race;
Yet he, just as often as any,
Is won by my first’s fell embrace;
Yet we most of us apt are to fall,
When our heads cease our hearts to control,
Let us hope that not one of us all
May be e’er in the state of my whole.
is solved by Sinking.
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357
My whole is no matter,
And light as the air,
Yet it is good on the platter,
And excellent fare.
Curtail and transpose,
And a lady you see,
Who will flatter and pose,
And with many do me.