When Eve Upon The First Of Men

What Joy Have I In June's Return? My Feet Are Parched-my Eyeballs Burn, I Scent No Flowery Gust; But Faint The Flagging Zephyr Springs, With Dry Macadam On Its Wings, And Turns Me 'dust To Dust.'

Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest Thing.

To Attempt To Advise Conceited People Is Like Whistling Against The Wind.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

How Widely Its Agencies Vary,- To Save, To Ruin, To Curse, To Bless,- As Even Its Minted Coins Express, Now Stamp'd With The Image Of Good Queen Bess, And Now Of A Bloody Mary.