EDITORIAL NOTE TO POETRY

eye's not clear to-day. You only stole a thought, sir? nay, Why be so rudely modest, pray? Here, take another handful—stay, Take all I have, you swine—you may Eat till your filth is purged away. FRIEND YORICK Be of good cheer, Friend Yorick! If this thought gives pain, As now it does, I fear, Is it not "God"? And though in error lain, 'Tis but your own dear child, Your flesh and blood, That tortures you and gives you pain, Your little rogue and do-no-good, See if the rod will change its mood! In brief, friend Yorick, leave that drear Philosophy—and let me now Whisper one word as medicine, My own prescription, in your ear, My remedy against