The Quaker Loves An Ample Brim, A

Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest Thing.

Whoe'er Has Gone Thro' London Street, Has Seen A Butcher Gazing At His Meat, And How He Keeps Gloating Upon A Sheep's Or Bullock's Personals, As If His Own; How He Admires His Halves And Quarters--and His Calves, As If In Truth Upon His Own Legs Grown.

My Brain Is Dull, My Sight Is Foul, I Cannot Write A Verse, Or Read-- Then, Pallas, Take Away Thine Owl, And Let Us Have A Lark Instead.

No Sun, No Moon, No Morn, No Noon, No Dawn, No Dusk, No Proper Time Of Day, . . . . . . No Road, No Street, No T' Other Side The Way, . . . . . . No Shade, No Shine, No Butterflies, No Bees, No Fruits, No Flowers, No Leaves, No Buds.

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.