I Should Like To Know Who Has

The Sight Of Blood To Crowds Begets The Thirst Of More, As The First Wine-cup Leads To The Long Revel.

What Is The End Of Fame? 'tis But To Fill A Certain Portion Of Uncertain Paper: Some Liken It To Climbing Up A Hill, Whose Summit, Like All Hills, Is Lost In Vapour: For This Men Write, Speak, Preach, And Heroes Kill, And Bards Burn What They Call Their "midnight Taper," To Have, When The Original Is Dust, A Name, A Wretched Picture, And Worse Bust.

Then Stirs The Feeling Infinite, So Felt In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

What Should I Have Known Or Written Had I Been A Quiet, Mercantile Politician Or A Lord In Waiting? A Man Must Travel, And Turmoil, Or There Is No Existence.

Sublime Tobacco! Which From East To West, Cheers The Tar's Labour Or The Turkman's Rest; Which On The Moslem's Ottoman Divides His Hours, And Rivals Opium And His Brides; Magnificent In Stamboul, But Less Grand, Though Not Less Loved, In Wapping Or The Strand: Divine In Hookas, Glorious In A Pipe, When Tipp'd With Amber, Mellow, Rich, And Ripe; Like Other Charmers Wooing The Caress, More Dazzlingly When Daring In Full Dress; Yet Thy True Lovers More Admire By Far Thy Naked Beauties Give Me A Cigar!