1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the Turks said just take anything you please
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone

5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14the best of all things to an end must come