Thou, friend, wilt hear all censures; unto thee
All mouths are open, and all stomachs free:
Be thou my book's intelligencer, note
What each man says of it, and of what coat
His judgement is; if he be wise, and praise,
Thank him: if other, he can give no bays.
If his wit reach no higher, but to spring
Thy wife a fit of laughter; a cramp ring
Will be reward enough: to wear like those,
That hang their richest jewels in their nose;
Like a rung bear, or swine: grunting out wit
As if that part lay for a ( ) most fit!
If they go on, and that thou lov'st a-life

Well, I'm in love with a feller, a feller you have seen,
He's neither white nor yellow but he's altogether green;
His name is not so charming, it's only Common Bill,
He urges me to wed to him but I hardly think I will.

Poor Bill, poor silly Bill,
He urges me to wed to him, but I hardly think I will.

He whispers of devotion, devotion pure and deep,
But it sounds so mighty silly that I almost fell asleep;
Now he thinks it would be pleasant for to journey down the hill,
Go hand in hand together, but I hardly think I will.

Poor Bill, poor silly Bill,

A light is laughing thro' the scattered rain,
A color quickens in the meadow;
Drops are still, upon the window-pane—
They cast a silver shadow.

'T IS done! 'tis well!—I've freely signed
The Pledge that prompts me to be wise;—
To keep the balance of my mind,
To cast the film from off my eyes:
Help me, divine, unerring Power!
To Thee, not man, do I appeal;
Oh! lend me strength this very hour,
For my eternal weal.

How frail—how failing I have been
In man's best duties here below!
My thoughts how dark, my pangs how keen,
He, the All-Wise, can only know.
Yet I have yearned—in sorrow yearned,
To keep my soul unsoiled within;
For I too prematurely learned
The misery of sin

the baby carriage
and the wild waves
side by side in summer

Only for thee I fly the joyful sun
And mar the gladsome features of the day;
But labour lost is all this labour done,
My travail gives thee not an hour of play.
My sleepless nights I consecrate to thee,
Thou canst not sleep the sounder, Love, for me.

My striving cannot bring thee rest from strife,
Nor all my weariness one moment's ease;
Thou hast a secret bitterness to wife.
Love's born of woes, but not such woes as these.
Last woe of all, my life for thee I give,
But dying, I can never make thee live.

Our bonny Scots lads, in their green tartan plaids,
Their blue-belted bonnets, and feathers sae braw,
Rank'd up on the green were fair to be seen,
But my bonny young laddie was fairest of a'.
His cheeks were as red as the sweet heather-bell,
Or the red western cloud looking down on the snaw,
His lang yellow hair o'er his braid shoulders fell,
And the een o' the lasses were fix'd on him a'.

My heart sunk wi' wae on the fearfu' day,
When torn frae my bosom they march'd him awa',
He bade me farewell, he cried, “O be leel,”

Creatures all eyes and brows, and tresses streaming
By speed divine blown back; within, all fire
Of wondering zeal, and storm of bright desire;--
Round the broad dome the immortal throngs are beaming:
With elemental powers the vault is teeming.
We gaze, and, gazing, join the fervid choir,
In spirit launched on wings that ne'er can tire,
Like those that buoy the breasts of children dreaming.
The exquisitest hand that e'er in light
Revealed the subtlest smile of new-born pleasure
The depth here fathoms, and attains the height;

Where heat of love doth once possess the heart,
There cares oppress the mind with wondrous ill:
Wit runs awry, not fearing future smart,
And fond desire doth overmaster will:
The belly neither cares for meat nor drink,
Nor over-watched eyes desire to wink.

Footsteps are false, and wavering to and fro;
The pleasing flower of beauty fades away;
Reason retires, and pleasure brings in woe,
And wisdom yieldeth place to black decay:
Counsel and fame, and friendship are contemned,
And bashful shame, and Gods themselves condemned.

Red, red roses glowing in the garden,
Rare, white lilies swaying on your stalks,
Did you hear me pray my sweet love for pardon,
Straying with him through your garden walks?

Ah, you glow and smile when the sun shines upon you—
You thrill with delight at the tears of the dew,
And the wind that caresses you boasts that he won you—
Do you think, fair flowers, to them all to be true?

Sun, dew, and wind, ah, they all are your lovers—
Sun, dew, and wind, and you love them back again—
And you flirt with the idle, white moth that hovers