343.
343.
What’s that the poor’s most precious friend,Nor less by kings respected—Contrived to pierce, contrived to rend,And to the sword connected.It draws no blood, and yet doth wound;Makes rich, but ne’er with spoil;It prints, as earth it wanders round,A blessing on the soil.The eldest cities it hath built,Bade mightiest kingdom rise; itNe’er fired to war, nor roused to guilt:Weal to the states that prize it!
What’s that the poor’s most precious friend,Nor less by kings respected—Contrived to pierce, contrived to rend,And to the sword connected.It draws no blood, and yet doth wound;Makes rich, but ne’er with spoil;It prints, as earth it wanders round,A blessing on the soil.The eldest cities it hath built,Bade mightiest kingdom rise; itNe’er fired to war, nor roused to guilt:Weal to the states that prize it!
What’s that the poor’s most precious friend,
Nor less by kings respected—
Contrived to pierce, contrived to rend,
And to the sword connected.
It draws no blood, and yet doth wound;
Makes rich, but ne’er with spoil;
It prints, as earth it wanders round,
A blessing on the soil.
The eldest cities it hath built,
Bade mightiest kingdom rise; it
Ne’er fired to war, nor roused to guilt:
Weal to the states that prize it!
344. When is a political candidate like Samson’s guests?
345. What is the most suitable dance to wind off a frolic?
346.
Revolving round a disk I goOne restless journey o’er and over;The smallest field my wanderings know,Thy hand the space could cover:Yet many a thousand miles are passedIn circling round that field so narrow:My speed outstrips the swiftest blast,The strongest bowman’s arrow.
Revolving round a disk I goOne restless journey o’er and over;The smallest field my wanderings know,Thy hand the space could cover:Yet many a thousand miles are passedIn circling round that field so narrow:My speed outstrips the swiftest blast,The strongest bowman’s arrow.
Revolving round a disk I go
One restless journey o’er and over;
The smallest field my wanderings know,
Thy hand the space could cover:
Yet many a thousand miles are passed
In circling round that field so narrow:
My speed outstrips the swiftest blast,
The strongest bowman’s arrow.
347. Why are buckwheat cakes like the caterpillar?