Our ills are worse than at their ease These blameless happy souls suspect, They only study the disease, Alas, who live not to detect. - Arthur Hugh Clough

Each for himself is still the rule
We learn it when we go to school—
The devil take the hindmost, O!

’Twas on a sunny summer day
I trod a mighty city’s street,
And when I started on my way
My heart was full of fancies sweet;
But soon, as nothing could be seen,
But countenances sharp and keen,
Nought heard or seen around but told
Of something bought or something sold,
And none that seemed to think or care
That any save himself was there.

Loving—if the answering breast
Seem not to be thus possessed,
Still in hoping have a care;
If it do, beware, beware!
But if in yourself you find it,
Above all things—mind it, mind it!