Nor business frets, nor anxious care intrudes;
_O si sic omnia_ I were it ever so!
But what is stable in this world below?
_Medio e fonte_,--Virtue has her faults,--
The clearest fountains taste of Epsom salts;
We snatch the cup and lift to drain it dry,--
Its central dimple holds a drowning fly
Strong is the pine by Maine's ambrosial streams,
But stronger augers pierce its thickest beams;
No iron gate, no spiked and panelled door,
Can keep out death, the postman, or the bore.
Oh for a world where peace and silence reign,
And blunted dulness verebrates in vain!
--The door-bell jingles,--enter Richard Fox,
And takes this letter from his leathern box.

"Dear Sir,--
In writing on a former day,
One little matter I forgot to say;
I now inform you in a single line,
On Thursday next our purpose is to dine.
The act of feeding, as you understand,
Is but a fraction of the work in hand;
Its nobler half is that ethereal meat
The papers call 'the intellectual treat;'
Songs, speeches, toasts, around the festive board
Drowned in the juice the College pumps afford;
For only water flanks our knives and forks,
So, sink or float, we swim without the corks.
Yours is the art, by native genius taught,