If I can guess the Devil choke me
What horrid fury could provoke thee
To use thy railing, scurrilous wit
Gainst prick and cunt, the source of it:
For what but prick and cunt does raise
Our thoughts to songs and roundelays,
Enables us to anagrams
And other amorous flim flams?
Then we write plays and so proceed
To bays, the poet's sacred weed.
Hast no respect for God Priapus?
That ancient story should not scape us:
Priapus was a Roman God,
(But in plain English, prick and cod)
Who pleased their sisters, wives, and daughters,

Dreaming last night on Mrs. Farley,
My prick was up this morning early;
And I was fain without my gown
'To rise in the cold to get him down.
Hard shift, alas, but yet a sure,
Although it be no pleasing cure.
Of old the fair Egyptian slattern,
For luxury that had no pattern,
To fortify her Roman swinger,
Instead of nutmeg, mace and ginger,
Did spice his bowls (as story tells)
With warts of rocks and spawn of shells.
It had been happy for her Grace
Had I been in the rascal's place.
I who do scorn that any stone

In bowdoun, on blak monunday,
Quhen all was gadderit to the Play,
Bayth men and wemen semblit thair,
I hard ane sweit ane sich, and say
Wa worth maryage for evermair!

Madinis, ye may have grit plesance
For to do Venus observance,
Thoch I inclusit be with cair,
That I dar nother sing nor dance.
Wa worth maryage for evermair!

Quhen that I was ane madein ying,
Lichtlie wald I dance and sing,
And sport and play, bayth lait and air.
Now dar I nocht luik to sic thing.
Wa worth maryage for evermair!

Upon a barricade thrown 'cross the street
Where patriot's blood with felon's stains one's feet,
Ta'en with grown men, a lad aged twelve, or less!
“Were you among them—you?” He answered: “Yes.”
“Good,” said the officer, “when comes your turn,
You'll be shot too.”—The lad sees lightnings burn,—
Stretched 'neath the wall his comrades one by one:
Then says to the officer, “First let me run
And take this watch home to my mother, sir?”
“You want to escape?”—“No, I'll come back.”—“What fear
These brats have! Where do you live?”—“By the well, below:

A THOUSAND gifts life brings us,
And some are passing fair:
What perfect flowers it flings us
When June's breath scents the air!
Yes, Life begins with pleasure:
The year begins with glee;
With golden blossom-treasure
And stormless azure sea.

Then how the prospect darkens: —
Hearts fail us, and betray;
Death glides amid our loved ones, —
Steals one by one away:
Life, which began in glory,
Grows sombre towards its close,
For old age chills our pleasures
As autumn chills the rose.

(“Owvrière sans yeux.”)

Toiler sans eyes, dull-brained Penelope,
 Cradler of chaos, powerless to create,
War, whom the clash of iron fires to glee,
 The furious blast of clarions makes elate,—
Quaffer of blood, foul hag that to thy feast
 Lur'st men and madden'st them with vile delight,—
Cloud, swollen with thunder North, South, West and East,
 Fulfilled with rage darker than darkest night,—
Vast Madness, that for swords keen lightnings wieldest,
 What is thy use, dire birth of hellish race,

Old poems lay before me, — and I knew
Again the floating dreams of early days
Which led me captive underneath the blaze
Of summer, when the sea was wide and blue
In front, — the cliff beneath me, — and when you
Walked as a queen along those windy ways,
And held towards me a sweet crown of bays
Wet with Youth's crystal sinless globes of dew.

Now for the morning the calm sunset shines.
Before me, — and the sun's remorseless eye
Is red between tall pillars of black pines
Wherethrough I have to travel by and bye;

Calme Seas least feared bee,
more daunger when they swell:
Yet in all Tydes we see,
they vse to sounde them well.

If thou wilte be rightfull,
Alwayes stande thou faythfull.
To doe well be carefull,
Note friends and be thankfull.
Vaine talke flye and learne wit,
Marke wise speeche and loue it.
Alwayes praye, and boast not,
Eschue pride, and vaunte not.
Hate no man, disdaine not,
Take time and sleepe not.
Eche vertue trayne iustly,
Regarde betters wisely.
Offend no wight wrongly,
And declare alwayes truely.
So God sure will loue thee,
And good men will praise thee.
When Vertue shall grace thee,
All fame shall embrace thee.

The crased Barke full oft is saued by Pylots care,
The greatest griefes by pleasant ioyes asswaged are.
The daylie toyles by some quiet rest are alwayes eased,
The vering spirites by Musike sweete, seeme somewhat pleased.
My onely ioy regarde you this my wofull case,
Sith none but your disdaine, my sorrow can delace.