A Hungry Wolf At All

Come, Come, Leave Business To Idlers, And Wisdom To Fools: They Have Need Of 'em: Wit Be My Faculty, And Pleasure My Occupation, And Let Father Time Shake His Glass.

Thus In This Sad, But Oh, Too Pleasing State! My Soul Can Fix Upon Nothing But Thee; Thee It Contemplates, Admires, Adores, Nay Depends On, Trusts On You Alone.

They Are At The End Of The Gallery; Retired To Their Tea And Scandal, According To Their Ancient Custom.

I Know That’s A Secret, For It’s Whispered Everywhere.

I Find We Are Growing Serious, And Then We Are In Great Danger Of Being Dull.