All things we look at, with bedazzled optics;
Sad are our hearts, because the vulgar rabble
Call us the Cookies.
Happy the man who, by his cheerful fireside,
Says to the partner of his joys and sorrows:
“Anna Maria, let us go to-morrow
Out for an airing.”
Him to Manhattan, or the beach of Brighton,
Gaily he hieth, or if, fate accurséd,