Says Bill to Tom, the answer’s plain
To any mind that’s bright:
Because the imp of darkness, sir,
Can ne’er be imp o’ light.
A PRINTER’S EPITAPH.
Here lies a form—place no imposing stone
To mark the head, where weary it is lain;
’Tis matter dead!—its mission being done,
To be distributed to dust again.
The body’s but the type, at best, of man,