Women, As They Are Like Riddles In

Whatever Is, Is Right.

Interspersed In Lawn And Opening Glades, Thin Trees Arise That Shun Each Others' Shades.

The Soul's Calm Sunshine, And The Heartfelt Joy.

Then, At The Last And Only Couplet Fraught With Some Unmeaning Thing They Call A Thought, A Needless Alexandrine Ends The Song, That, Like A Wounded Snake, Drags Its Slow Length Along.

An Atheist Is But A Mad, Ridiculous Derider Of Piety, But A Hypocrite Makes A Sober Jest Of God And Religion; He Finds It Easier To Be Upon His Knees Than To Rise To A Good Action.