Nay, Peter Robertson, 'tis not for you
    To blubber o'er Max Taubles for he's dead.
  By Heaven! my hearty, if you only knew
    How better is a grave-worm in the head
  Than brains like yours—how far more decent, too,
    A tomb in far Corea than a bed
  Where Peter lies with Peter, you would covet
  His happier state and, dying, learn to love it.

  In the recesses of the silent tomb
    No Maunderings of yours disturb the peace.
  Your mental bag-pipe, droning like the gloom
    Of Hades audible, perforce must cease
  From troubling further; and that crack o' doom,
    Your mouth, shaped like a long bow, shall release
  In vain such shafts of wit as it can utter—
  The ear of death can't even hear them flutter.