[from Death's jest Book, 1850]
What is the lobster's tune when he is boiled?
I hate your ballads that are made to come
Round like a squirrel's cage, and round again.
We nightingales sing boldly from our hearts:
So listen to us.
. . . How I despise
All you mere men of muscle! It was ever
My study to find out a way to godhead,
And on reflection soon I found that first
I was half created; that a power
was wanting in my soul to be a soul,
And this was mine to make . . .