At the melancholy calling of an eligible son!
For no sound more sweet can float,
From the wit within his throat,
Than a pun!
And the people, - ah, the people, -
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Not content to call a leetle
On their flame,
And who, calling, calling, calling,
Always telling each the same,
Feel a glory to see falling
Into every stand their name.
They are neither man nor woman,
They are neither brute nor human, -
They are fools;
Society, their king who rules,
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Lectures on English Novelists.
