Aaron Hill ( 10 of 20 )
Mere verbiage,--it is not worth a carrot!
Why Socrates or Plato--where's the odds?--
Once taught a jay read more
Mere verbiage,--it is not worth a carrot!
Why Socrates or Plato--where's the odds?--
Once taught a jay to supplicate the Gods,
And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!
A name, it has more than nominal worth,
And belongs to good or bad luck at birth.
A name, it has more than nominal worth,
And belongs to good or bad luck at birth.
Behold him in conceited circles sail,
Strutting and dancing and now planted stiff,
In all his pomp read more
Behold him in conceited circles sail,
Strutting and dancing and now planted stiff,
In all his pomp of pageantry, as if
He felt the eyes of Europe on his tail.
Tender-handed stroke a nettle,
And it stings you for your pains;
Grasp it like a man of read more
Tender-handed stroke a nettle,
And it stings you for your pains;
Grasp it like a man of mettle,
And it soft as silk remains.
'Tis the same with common natures,
Use 'em kindly, they rebel;
But, be rough as nutmeg-graters,
And the rogues obey you well.
A man may cry, Church! Church! at ev'ry word,
With no pore piety than other people--
A read more
A man may cry, Church! Church! at ev'ry word,
With no pore piety than other people--
A daw's not reckoned a religious bird
Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple.
Hundreds of men were turned into beasts,
Like the guests at Circe's horrible feasts,
By the magic read more
Hundreds of men were turned into beasts,
Like the guests at Circe's horrible feasts,
By the magic of ale and cider.
Just as the felon condemn'd to die--
With a very natural loathing--
Leaving the sheriff to dream read more
Just as the felon condemn'd to die--
With a very natural loathing--
Leaving the sheriff to dream of ropes,
From his gloomy cell in a vision elopes,
To caper on sunny greens and slopes,
Instead of the dance upon nothing.
He comes to the world, as a gentleman comes
To a lodging ready furnished.
He comes to the world, as a gentleman comes
To a lodging ready furnished.
There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in melancholy.
There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in melancholy.
To his tuned spirit the wild heather-bells
Ring Sabbath knells;
The sod's a cushion for his pious read more
To his tuned spirit the wild heather-bells
Ring Sabbath knells;
The sod's a cushion for his pious want,
And, consecrated by the heaven within it,
The sky-blue pool a font.