O
what a strange parcel of creatures are we,
Scarce
ever to quarrel, or even agree;
We
all are alone, though at home altogether,
Except
to the fire constrained by the weather;
Then
one says, ‘’Tis cold’, which we all of us know,
And
with unanimity answer, ‘’Tis so’:
With
shrugs and with shivers all look at the fire,
And
shuffle ourselves and our chairs a bit nigher;
Then
quickly, preceded by silence profound,
A
yawn epidemical catches around:
Like
social companions we never fall out,
Nor
ever care what one another’s about;
To
comfort each other is never our plan,
For
to please ourselves, truly, is more than we can.
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