Samuel Butler

Her voice, the music of the spheres,
So loud, it deafens mortals' ears;
As wise philosophers have read more

Her voice, the music of the spheres,
So loud, it deafens mortals' ears;
As wise philosophers have thought,
And that's the cause we hear it not.

For trouts are tickled best in muddy water.

For trouts are tickled best in muddy water.

With vollies of eternal babble.

With vollies of eternal babble.

Success, the mark no mortal wit,
Or surest hand, can always hit:
For whatsoe'er we perpetrate,
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Success, the mark no mortal wit,
Or surest hand, can always hit:
For whatsoe'er we perpetrate,
We do but row, we're steer'd by Fate,
Which in success oft disinherits,
For spurious causes, noblest merits.

But still his tongue ran on, the less
Of weight it bore, with greater ease.

But still his tongue ran on, the less
Of weight it bore, with greater ease.