I also like to dine on becaficas,

To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow,

Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as

A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow,

But with all Heaven t'himself; the day will break as

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow

That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers

Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers.