There Are More Ways Of Killing A

You Must Not Say That This Cannot Be, Or That That Is Contrary To Nature. You Do Not Know What Nature Is, Or What She Can Do; And Nobody Knows; Not Even Sir Roderick Murchison, Or Professor Huxley, Or Mr. Darwin, Or Professor Faraday, Or Mr. Grove, Or Any Other Of The Great Men Whom Good Boys Are Taught To Respect. They Are Very Wise Men; And You Must Listen Respectfully To All They Say: But Even If They Should Say, Which I Am Sure They Never Would, 'that Cannot Exist. That Is Contrary To Nature,' You Must Wait A Little, And See; For Perhaps Even They May Be Wrong.

You Are Literally Filled With The Fruit Of Your Own Devices, With Rats And Mice And Such Small Deer, Paramecia, And Entomostraceæ, And Kicking Things With Horrid Names, Which You See In Microscopes At The Polytechnic, And Rush Home And Call For Brandy-without The Water-stone, And Gravel, And Dyspepsia, And Fragments Of Your Own Muscular Tissue Tinged With Your Own Bile.

For Men Must Work And Women Must Weep, And The Sooner It's Over, The Sooner To Sleep.

There's No Use Doing A Kindness If You Do It A Day Too Late.

Oh England Is A Pleasant Place For Them That's Rich And High, But England Is A Cruel Place For Such Poor Folks As I