Since that all things thou wouldst praise / Beauty took from those who loved them / In other days.

It's a very odd thing / As odd as can be / That whatever Miss T. eats / Turns into Miss T.

Very old are we men; / Our dreams are tales / Told in dim Eden / By Eve's nightingales.

Life's troubled bubble broken.

Has anybody seen my Mopser? - / A comely dog is he, / With hair the colour of a Charles the Fifth, / And teeth like ships at sea.

A lost but happy dream may shed its light upon our waking hours, and the whole day may be infected with the gloom of a dreary or sorrowful one; yet of neither may we be able to recover a trace.

Three jolly Farmers / Once bet a pound / Each dance the other would / Off the ground.

Ann, Ann! / Come! quick as you can! / There's a fish that talks / In the frying pan.

All day long the door of the sub-conscious remains just ajar; we slip through to the other side, and return again, as easily and secretly as a cat.