The Village and The Newspaper

by George Crabbe

But the dull morn a sullen aspect wears:

We meet, but ah! without our wonted smile,

To talk of headaches, and complain of bile;

Sullen we ponder o’er a dull repast,

Nor feast the body while the mind must fast.

A master passion is the love of news,

Not music so commands, nor so the Muse:

Give poets claret, they grow idle soon;

Feed the musician and he’s out of tune;

But the sick mind, of this disease possess’d,