Party-spirit At Best Is But The Madness

Poets Heap Virtues, Painters Gems, At Will, And Show Their Zeal, And Hide Their Want Of Skill.

Learn Of The Little Nautilus To Sail, Spread The Thin Oar, And Catch The Driving Gale.

Lend, Lend Your Wings! I Mount! I Fly! O Grave! Where Is Thy Victory? O Death! Where Is Thy Sting?

Seas Roll To Waft Me, Suns To Light Me Rise; My Footstool Earth, My Canopy The Skies.

All Looks Yellow To A Jaundiced Eye.