Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest

The Lily Is All In White, Like A Saint, And So Is No Mate For Me.

Such A Blush In The Midst Of Brown Was Born, Like Red Poppies Grown With Corn.

It Was A Childish Ignorance, But Now 'tis Little Joy To Know I'm Further Off From Heaven Than When I Was A Boy.

Extremes Meet', As The Whiting Said With Its Tail In Its Mouth.

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