God said: "Let Spirit perish into Form," And lexicographers arose, a swarm! Thought fled and left her clothing, which they took, And catalogued each garment in a book. Now, from her leafy covert when she cries: "Give me my clothes and I'll return," they rise And scan the list, and say without compassion: "Excuse us--they are mostly out of fashion."
LIAR, n. A lawyer with a roving commission.
LIBERTY, n. One of Imagination's most precious possessions.
The rising People, hot and out of breath, Roared around the palace: "Liberty or death!" "If death will do," the King said, "let me reign; You'll have, I'm sure, no reason to complain."
LICKSPITTLE, n. A useful functionary, not infrequently found editing a newspaper. In his character of editor he is closely allied to the blackmailer by the tie of occasional identity; for in truth the lickspittle is only the blackmailer under another aspect, although the latter is frequently found as an independent species. Lickspittling is more detestable than blackmailing, precisely as the business of a confidence man is more detestable than that of a highway robber; and the parallel maintains itself throughout, for whereas few robbers will cheat, every sneak will plunder if he dare.
LIFE, n. A spiritual pickle preserving the body from decay. We live in daily apprehension of its loss; yet when lost it is not missed. The question, "Is life worth living?" has been much discussed; particularly by those who think it is not, many of whom have written at great length in support of their view and by careful observance of the laws of health enjoyed for long terms of years the honors of successful controversy.
"Life's not worth living, and that's the truth," Carelessly caroled the golden youth. In manhood still he maintained that view And held it more strongly the older he grew. When kicked by a jackass at eighty-three, "Go fetch me a surgeon at once!" cried he.
LIGHTHOUSE, n. A tall building on the seashore in which the government maintains a lamp and the friend of a politician.
LIMB, n. The branch of a tree or the leg of an American woman.
'Twas a pair of boots that the lady bought, And the salesman laced them tight To a very remarkable height-- Higher, indeed, than I think he ought-- Higher than _can_ be right. For the Bible declares--but never mind: It is hardly fit To censure freely and fault to find With others for sins that I'm not inclined Myself to commit. Each has his weakness, and though my own Is freedom from every sin, It still were unfair to pitch in, Discharging the first censorious stone. Besides, the truth compels me to say, The boots in question were _made_ that way. As he drew the lace she made a grimace, And blushingly said to him: "This boot, I'm sure, is too high to endure, It hurts my--hurts my--limb." The salesman smiled in a manner mild, Like an artless, undesigning child; Then, checking himself, to his face he gave A look as sorrowful as the grave, Though he didn't care two figs For her pains and throes, As he stroked her toes, Remarking with speech and manner just Befitting his calling: "Madam, I trust That it doesn't hurt your twigs."