You have tried famine:  no more try it;
Ply us now with a full diet;
Teach your pupils now with plenty,
For one sun supply us twenty. 
I have thought it thoroughly over,—­
State of hermit, state of lover;
We must have society,
We cannot spare variety. 
Hear you, then, celestial fellows! 
Fits not to be overzealous;
Steads not to work on the clean jump,
Nor wine nor brains perpetual pump. 
Men and gods are too extense;
Could you slacken and condense? 
Your rank overgrowths reduce
Till your kinds abound with juice? 
Earth, crowded, cries, ‘Too many men!’
My counsel is, kill nine in ten,
And bestow the shares of all
On the remnant decimal. 
Add their nine lives to this cat;
Stuff their nine brains in one hat;
Make his frame and forces square
With the labors he must dare;
Thatch his flesh, and even his years
With the marble which he rears. 
There, growing slowly old at ease
No faster than his planted trees,
He may, by warrant of his age,
In schemes of broader scope engage. 
So shall ye have a man of the sphere
Fit to grace the solar year.

MITHRIDATES

I cannot spare water or wine,
  Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose;
From the earth-poles to the Line,
  All between that works or grows,
Every thing is kin of mine.

Give me agates for my meat;
Give me cantharids to eat;
From air and ocean bring me foods,
From all zones and altitudes;—­

From all natures, sharp and slimy,
  Salt and basalt, wild and tame: 
Tree and lichen, ape, sea-lion,
  Bird, and reptile, be my game.

Ivy for my fillet band;
Blinding dog-wood in my hand;
Hemlock for my sherbet cull me,
And the prussic juice to lull me;
Swing me in the upas boughs,
Vampyre-fanned, when I carouse.

Too long shut in strait and few,
Thinly dieted on dew,
I will use the world, and sift it,
To a thousand humors shift it,
As you spin a cherry. 
O doleful ghosts, and goblins merry! 
O all you virtues, methods, mights,
Means, appliances, delights,
Reputed wrongs and braggart rights,
Smug routine, and things allowed,
Minorities, things under cloud! 
Hither! take me, use me, fill me,
Vein and artery, though ye kill me!

TO J.W.

Set not thy foot on graves;
Hear what wine and roses say;
The mountain chase, the summer waves,
The crowded town, thy feet may well delay.

Set not thy foot on graves;
Nor seek to unwind the shroud
Which charitable Time
And Nature have allowed
To wrap the errors of a sage sublime.

Set not thy foot on graves;
Care not to strip the dead
Of his sad ornament,
His myrrh, and wine, and rings,

His sheet of lead,
And trophies buried: 
Go, get them where he earned them when alive;
As resolutely dig or dive.