And such as they are, such my present tale is,

A nondescript and ever-varying rhyme,

A versified Aurora Borealis,

Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime.

When we know what all are, we must bewail us,

But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime

To laugh at all things—for I wish to know

What, after all, are all things—but a show?