Poems you ought to know . hn, You didnt stop for fuss—Britannys trident prongs, John, Was good nough law for Uncle S., sez he, I guess. Though physics good, sez he,It doesnt foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed *J. B., Put up by you an me! 223 We own the ocean, tu, John; You musnt take it hard,Ef we cant think with you, John, Its jest your own back Uncle S., sez he, I guess, Ef thets his claim, sez he,The fencin stuffll cost enough To bust up friend J. B., Ez wal ez you an me! We know weve got a cause, John, Thets honest, just, an true;We thought twould win applause,
Poems you ought to know . hn, You didnt stop for fuss—Britannys trident prongs, John, Was good nough law for Uncle S., sez he, I guess. Though physics good, sez he,It doesnt foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed *J. B., Put up by you an me! 223 We own the ocean, tu, John; You musnt take it hard,Ef we cant think with you, John, Its jest your own back Uncle S., sez he, I guess, Ef thets his claim, sez he,The fencin stuffll cost enough To bust up friend J. B., Ez wal ez you an me! We know weve got a cause, John, Thets honest, just, an true;We thought twould win applause, John, Ef nowheres else, from Uncle S., sez he, I guess His love of right, sez he,Hangs by a rotten fibre o cotton; Theres natur in J. B., Ez wal ez you an me! God means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea,Believe an understand, John, The wuth o being Uncle S., sez he, I guess Gods price is high, sez he;But nothin else than wut he sells Wears long, an thet J. larn, like you an 223 SOLILOQUY FROM HAMLET. BY WILLIAM be, or not to be; that is the question;Whether tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe shngs and arrows of outrageous to take arms against a sea of by opposing end them ? To die: to sleep:No more; and by a sleep to say we endThe heart-ache and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to; tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished. To die; to sleep;To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, theres the rub;For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause: theres the respectThat makes calamity of so long life;For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,The oppressors wrong, the proud mans contumely,The pangs of despisd love, the laws delay,The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of the unworthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear,To grunt and sweat under a weary li
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, booksubjectenglishpoetry, bookye
