The Hand of Art here torpid lies
That wav'd th' essential Form of Grace,
Here death has clos'd the curious eyes
That saw the manners in the face.
If Genius warm thee, Reader, stay,
If Merit touch thee, shed a tear,
Be Vice and Dulness far away
Great Hogarth's honour'd Dust is here.

Half asleep,
chanting a No play,
his rear end for a drum

Had there been falsehood in my breast
No thorns had marred my road,
This spirit had not lost its rest,
These tears had never flowed.

Gut eats all day, and lechers all the night;
So all his meat he tasteth over, twice;
And striving so to double his delight,
He makes himself a thoroughfare of vice.
Thus in his belly can he change a sin:
Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.

The Russian bear is huge and wild,
He has devoured the infant child,
The infant child is not aware
It has been eaten by the bear.

The grey beards wag, the bald heads nod,
And gather thick as bees,
To talk electrons, gases, God,
Old nebulae, new fleas.
Each specialist, each dry-as-dust
And professorial oaf,
Holds up his little crumb of crust
And cries, " Behold the loaf!"

My heart troubled
by the sound of the waves,
I spend the night,
my only friend the moon's light
winnowing through this hut.

Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.

The greatest saints and sinners have been made
Of proselytes of one another's trade.

Great Gawd, I'm feelin' bad,
I ain't got the man that I thought I had!