Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside
I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride;
Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,
Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.
Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main
Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accent of Cockaigne.
There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents;
Sink the Steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, oh, rot the Three per Cents!
There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin!
I will wed some savage woman—nay, I'll wed at least a dozen.