Alas For The Rarity Of

O Bed! O Bed! Delicious Bed! That Heaven Upon Earth To The Weary Head.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

The Best Of Friends Fall Out, And So His Teeth Had Done Some Years Ago.

Oh Would I Were Dead Now, Or Up In My Bed Now, To Cover My Head Now, And Have A Good Cry!

Oh! God! That Bread Should Be So Dear, And Flesh And Blood So Cheap!