How are you dear world this morning?
Clean from my bath of sleep,
Warm from the bosom of my mother star,
Recharged with the energy of my father self,
Restored from all derelict hours to the lawful service of time,
I come without gift or doctrine or tethering humor
To entertain your fateful will.
How are you dear world this morning?
I went to bed last night in the twist and snarl of a problem.
Have you awakened me to a revelation?
Has some change come upon the face of the earth and the heart of man?
Was life still busy while my life slept?

CCXXXV

Quondam was I in my lady's grace,
I think as well as now be you;
And when that you have trod the trace
Then shall you know my words be true,
That quondam was I.

Quondam was I. She said for ever.
That ‘ever’ lasted but a short while.
Promise made not to dissever,
I thought she laughed — she did but smile.
Then quondam was I.

Quondam was I — he that full oft lay
In her arms with kisses many one.
It is enough that this I may say:
Though among the moe now I be gone
Yet quondam was I.

Quondam was I. Yet she will you tell

What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger;
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.

What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger;
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby too shall fly away.

Oh! flower-gazers, who have decked
The surface of their skeletons!

A WAY , away—you're all the same,
A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng;
And, wise too late, I burn with shame,
To think I've been your slave so long.

Slow to be won, and quick to rove,
From folly kind, from cunning loath,
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
Yet feigning all that's best in both;

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,—
More joy it gives to woman's breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,
Than one true, manly lover blest.

Away, away—your smile 's a curse—
Oh! blot me from the race of men,

Or come again,
Or send to us
Thy wit's great overplus;
But teach us yet
Wisely to husband it,
Lest we that talent spend;
And having once brought to an end
That precious stock, the store
Of such a wit the world should have no more.

I was down and I cried
my crow jane won't come at night
I was down and I cried, my crow jane
won't come at night
Ain't it tough to see a man go to wreck and
almost stall and die

I stood on the corner
and almost bust my head
I stood on the corner
almost bust my head
I couldn't earn enough money
to buy me a loaf of bread

Baby, times is so hard
I almost call it tough
I said baby, times is so hard
I almost call it tough
I can't earn money to buy no bread
and you know I can't buy my snuff

My gal's a house maid

Inpride of Wit, when high desire of Fame
Gave Life and Courage to my lab'ring Pen,
And first the sound and vertue of my Name
Wonne grace and credit in the Eares of Men;
With those the thronged Theaters that presse,
I in the Circuit for the Lawrell strove:
Where, the full Prayse I freely must confesse,
In heat of Bloud, a modest Mind might move.
With Showts and Claps at ev'ry little pawse,
When the proud Round on ev'ry side hath rung,
Sadly I sit, unmov'd with the Applause,
As though to me it nothing did belong:
No publike Glorie vainely I pursue,

Those Priests which first the Vestall Fire begun,
Which might be borrow'd from no Earthly flame,
Devis'd a Vessell to receive the Sunne,
Being stedfastly opposed to the same:
Where, with sweet Wood, layd curiously by Art,
On which the Sunne might by reflection beat,
Receiving strength from ev'ry secret part,
The Fuell kindled with Celestiall Heat.
Thy blessed Eyes, the Sunne which lights this Fire,
My holy Thoughts, they be the Vestall flame,
The precious Odors be my chaste Desire,
My Brest's the Vessell, which includes the same:

When conqu'ring Love did first my Heart assayle,
Unto mine aid I summon'd ev'ry Sense,
Doubting, if that proud Tyrant should prevayle,
My Heart should suffer for mine Eyes Offence;
But he with Beautie first corrupted Sight,
My Hearing brib'd with her Tongues Harmonie,
My Taste by her sweet Lips drawne with Delight,
My Smelling wonne with her Breath's Spicerie:
But when my Touching came to play his part,
(The King of Senses, greater then the rest)
He yeelds Love up the Keyes unto my Heart,
And tells the other, how they should be blest.