Come , Micky and Molly and dainty Dolly,
—Come, Betty and blithesome Bill;
Ye gossips and neighbors, away with your labors!
—Come to the top of the hill.
For there are Jenny and jovial Joe;
Jolly and jolly, jolly they go,
—Jogging over the hill.

By apple and berry, 'tis twelve months merry
—Since Jenny and Joe were wed!
And never a bother or quarrelsome pother
—To trouble the board or bed.
So Joe and Jenny are off to Dunmow:
Happy and happy, happy they go,
—Young and rosy and red.

Oh, Jenny's as pretty as doves in a ditty;

I called for my carriage and went to look at strange rarities,
Hastening on my way I went to the Magic Mountain
In the morning I crossed the shores of a pure stream,
In the evening I rested by the Five Dragon Spring
The Singing-Stone holds a hidden music,
Thunderous and startling, it shakes the Nine Heavens
It is not that there are no such things as Mysterious Transformations,
But that no one knows of the Spontaneity of the Spirits.
Flying mist brushes the blue peaks,
A green torrent washes between the crags
Rinse my hands in the vernal purity of the spring,

Just as the traveller, putting forth from land
At sunset, sees the waste on either hand
Widen, and sees the shore
Slowly diminish, till the last land-breeze
Brings the last scent of thyme and scent of trees,—
One faint waft, then no more:

As the night darkens slowly, and the coast
Becomes a faint far shadow, while the host
Of waters wails around;
As still the darkness deepens, till the sail
Stands out alone against the sky—one pale
Ghost on the black background:

As next the gold stars one by one appear,

They ask me where I've been,
And what I've done and seen.
But what can I reply
Who know it wasn't I,
But some one just like me,
Who went across the sea
And with my head and hands
Killed men in foreign lands …
Though I must bear the blame,
Because he bore my name.

As Anne longe barren, Mother dyd become
of hym, who last was Iudge in Israell:
Thou last of prophetts borne lyke Samuell
dydd'st from a wombe past hope of issue come.
Hys mother sylent spake: thy father dombe
recoveryng speache, goddes wonder dyd foretell:
he after death a prophett was in hell:
and thou vnborne within thy mothers wombe:
He dyd annoynte the kynge, whom God dyd take
from charge of sheepe, to rule his chosen land:
But that highe kynge who heaven & earth did make
Receav'd a holyer lyquour from thy hand,

Skylark , how I envy you
Your gentle pleasures ever new,
Warbling at the break of day
Of love, sweet love, sweet love alway,
And shaking free your beating wings
Of dew that to each feather clings!

Ere Apollo risen hath,
You lift your body from its bath,
Darting up with little leaps
To dry it where the cloud-flock sleeps,
Fluttering free each tiny wing
And “tirra-lirra” carolling
Sweet, so sweet, that every swain,
Knowing Spring has come again,
Thinketh on his love anew
And longs to be a bird like you.

Nor skin nor hide nor fleece
Shall cover you,
Nor curtain of crimson nor fine
Shelter of cedar-wood be over you,
Nor the fir-tree
Nor the pine.

Nor sight of whin nor gorse
Nor river-yew,
Nor fragrance of flowering bush,
Nor wailing of reed-bird to waken you.
Nor of linnet
Nor of thrush.

Nor word nor touch nor sight
Of lover, you
Shall long through the night but for this:
The roll of the full tide to cover you
Without question,
Without kiss.

When Diophantus knew
The Destinies' decreet—
How he was forced to forgoe
His dear and only sweet.

O'er vaulted with the vail
Of beam-rebeating trees,
And ghastly gazing on the ground
Ev'n death-stroke in his eyes,

Oft pressed he to speak,
But while he did essay,
The agonizing dread of death
His wrestling voice did stay.

At last, as one that strives
Against both woe and shame,—
“Dear Charidora, oh!” he cries,
“My high adored dame.

“First I attest thy name,
And then the gods above;

Ill-fated hour! oft as thy annual reign
Leads on th' autumnal tide, my pinion'd joys
Fade with the glories of the fading year;
“Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train,”
And bids affection heave the heart-drawn sigh
O'er the cold tomb, rich with the spoils of death,
And wet with many a tributary tear!

Eight times has each successive season sway'd
The fruitful sceptre of our milder clime
Since my loved——died! but why, ah! why
Should melancholy cloud my early years?
Religion spurns earth's visionary scene,
Philosophy revolts at misery's chain:

Life is great
Men are small
Were it not for the Power
To which each testifies
We could not suppress a titter.
The Soul is in eternity.
As a man stands in the landscape
He is very small,
But he is apprised that the other is large
And being so apprized
Partakes of its scope.
When once he has believed
And become doubly alive
Threescore & ten orbits of the sun
To him short term appears
And he finds it not unworthy
To live long only for a few lessons
Assured he shall pass through a million forms
And in each acquire the appropriate facts