Father Of Rosy Day, No More Thy

Father Of Rosy Day, No More Thy Clouds Of Incense Rise; But Waking Flow'rs, At Morning Hours, Give Out Their Sweets To Meet Thee In The Skies.

So Mayst Thou Live, Dear! Many Years, In All The Bliss That Life Endears

When Was Ever Honey Made With One Bee In A Hive?

For Man May Pious Texts Repeat, And Yet Religion Have No Inward Seat

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.