The labourers in the vineyard toil
(So numerous are their creeds)
Far less to cultivate the soil,
Than break each others' heads.

* * * * *

'Write epigrams! why, Sir, there's nothing in it.
I would be bound the merest scribbler could
To write one in a minute.'
No doubt you could but then there would
Indeed, be nothing in it.

* * * * *

The ambitious rage of Russia nought controls,
With her vast empire she'd unite the Poles.