1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14the best of all things to an end must come
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