English

But twelve short years you lived, my son,
Just twelve short years, and then you died:
And now your life's brief course is run,
This grave a father's hopes doth hide.

But they know that my country
has known a thousand conquerors
and they know
that the thousand
have all melted away
like driven snow.

But that from slow dissolving pomps of dawn
No verity of slowly strengthening light
Early or late hath issued; but that the day,
Scarce-shown, relapses rather, self-withdrawn,
Back to the glooms of antenatal night,
For this, O human beings, mourn we may.

But Robin he walkes in the g[reene] fforrest,
As merry as bird on boughe,
But he that feitches good Robins head,
Hee 'le find him game enoughe.

But Robine he walkes in the greene fforrest,
Vnder his trusty-tree;
Sayes, Hearken, hearken, my merrymen all,
What tydings is come to me.

The sheriffe he hath made a cry,
Hee 'le have my head i-wis;
But ere a tweluemonth come to an end

But pretty though as
roses is
you can put up with
the thorns

DORIS TALLEY, HOUSEWIFE & GARDENER

you live until you die —
if the limb don't fall

BUTLER JENKINS, CARETAKER

your points is blue
and your timing's
a week off

SAM CRESWELL, AUTO MECHANIC

" But plett a wand o bonnie birk
An lay it on my breast,
An drap a tear upon my grave,
An wiss my saul gude rest.

" But fair Marget, an rare Marget,
An Marget, o verity,
If eer ye loe another man,
Neer loe him as ye did me."

But up then crew the milk-white cock,
An up then crew the grey;
Her lover vanishd in the air,
An she gaed weepin away.

But only to be memories of spiritual gate,
Letting us feel the difference from the real;
Are not limits the sooth to formulate
Theories thereof, simply our ruler to feel?
Basques of statuettes of eruptions long ago,
Of power in symmetry, marvel of thought
The crafts attempt, showing rare aspiration;
The museums of the ancient fine stones
For bowls and cups found historians
Sacred adorations, the numismatist hath shown,
But only to be memories of spiritual gate,
Letting us feel the difference from the real;

But once upon a time
the oakleaves and the wild boars
Antonio Antonio
the old wound is bleeding.

We are in Silvertown
we have come here with a modest ambition
to know a little bit about the river
eating cheese and pickled onions on a terrace by the Thames.

Sweet Thames! the ferry glides across your bosom
like Leda's swan.
The factories ah slender graces
sly naked damsels nodding their downy plumes.

But not on a shell, she starts,
Archaic, for the sea.
But on the first-found weed
She scuds the glitters,
Noiselessly, like one more wave.

She too is discontent
And would have purple stuff upon her arms,
Tired of the salty harbors,
Eager for the brine and bellowing
Of the high interiors of the sea.

The wind speeds her,
Blowing upon her hands.
And watery back.
She touches the clouds, where she goes
In the circle of her traverse of the sea.

Yet this is meagre play

But how many merry monthes be in the yeere?
 There are thirteen, I say;
The midsum m er moone is the merryest of all,
 Next to the merry month of May.

In May, when mayds beene fast weepand,
 Young men their hands done wringe,

*****

‘I'le . . pe . . . . .
 Over may noe man for villanie:’
‘I'le never eate nor drinke,’ Ro bin Hood sa[id],
 ‘Till I that cutted friar see.’

He builded his men in a brake of fearne,
 A litle from that nunery;
Sayes, If you heare my litle horne blow,