A Small Drop Of Ink Makes Thousands,

O Gold! I Still Prefer Thee Unto Paper, Which Makes Bank Credit Like A Bark Of Vapour.

Venice Once Was Dear, The Pleasant Place Of All Festivity, The Revel Of The Earth, The Masque Of Italy.

Gone, Glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were.

Christians Have Burnt Each Other, Quite Persuaded. That All The Apostles Would Have Done As They Did.

For The Angel Of Death Spread His Wings On The Blast, And Breathed In The Face Of The Foe As He Passed; And The Eyes Of The Sleepers Waxed Deadly And Chill, And Their Hearts But Once Heaved, And For Ever Grew Still!