Tis Sweet To Listen As The Night

Fare Thee Well, And If For Ever Still For Ever Fare Thee Well.

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

And Life 's Enchanted Cup But Sparkles Near The Brim.

And Wrinkles, The Damned Democrats, Won't Flatter.

But Every Fool Describes, In These Bright Days, His Wondrous Journey To Some Foreign Court, And Spawns His Quarto, And Demands Your Praise,-- Death To His Publisher, To Him 'tis Sport.