Lightly I sped when hope was high

The world's as ugly, ay, as Sin,— And almost as delightful.

"Vanitas vanitatum" has rung in the ears Of gentle and simple for thousands of years; The wail still is heard, yet its notes never scare Either simple or gentle from Vanity Fair.

What an arm—what a waist For an arm!

And this was your Cradle? Why, surely, my Jenny, Such cozy dimensions go clearly to show You were an exceedingly small pickaninny, Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

Vermouth always makes me brilliant unless it makes me idiotic, but we'll hope for the best.

Thy soft-breathed hopes with magic might Have chased from my soul the shades of night