— strange glad and sad brain, Whose mirth, you may notice, turns all upon pain. His puns are such breeders of puns, in and in, Our laughter becomes a like manifold din: Yet a right poet also was Hood, and could vary His jokes with deep fancies of Centaur and Fairy; And aye on his fame will a tear be attending, Who wrote the starv'd song, with its burden unending.
