OF this, our day, ’twere easy to speak ill;
The books, the wit, the manners, could be bettered
But happily while you are with us still,
No man can say England is yet unlettered.
TO THE PRODUCER OF A RECENT LIGHT MUSICAL ENTERTAINMENT WHO BOASTED OF ITS COST
IF you paid thirty thousand for this stuff,
Flesh must be dear, for dirt is cheap enough.
THE STOUT IDEALIST
THE earth itself must toil and sweat and groan
To bear this old Professor’s eighteen stone;
And yet, though every day he’s getting fatter,
He still denies reality to matter.
COLERIDGE
WOND’ROUS the ship, more wond’rous still its freight,
Never another stuffed with bales like these;
Yet lost so soon; by some strange freak of Fate,
Swept rudderless into uncharted seas.
TO A DEPARTED GUEST
LADY, we go to bed before it’s night,
Rather than grope in lamp or candle light:
Now that your eyes are hidden from our sight.