Pretty wantons, sweetly sing
In honour of the smiling spring.
Look how the light-winged chirping choir
With nimble skips the spring admire.
But O, hark how the birds sing, O mark that note,
Jug, jug, tereu, tereu,
O prett'ly warbled from a sweet sweet throat.

The precincts at day, quiet leisure of spring:
I give myself to the solitude, linger at my meals.
Gazing at flowers, I lean against the tree;
listening to birds, walk by the fragrant pond.
The courtyard is warm, a gathering place for the bees;
the stairs under a clear sky — enriched by creeping vines.
Good feelings come from every spot:
it's easy to write new poems.

Poor old Robinson Crusoe!
Poor old Robinson Crusoe!
He made him a coat,
Of an old nanny goat,
What a clever fellow to do so!
With a ring a ting tang,
And a ring a ting tang,
Poor old Robinson Crusoe!

Poor is the life that misses
The lover's greatest treasure,
Innumerable kisses,
Which end in endless pleasure.
Oh, then, if this be so,
Shall I a virgin die? Fie no!

The Poor in Wit or Judgment, like all Poor,
Revile, for having least, those who have more:
So 'tis the Critick's Scarcity of Wit
Makes him traduce them who have most of it.
Since to their Pitch himself he cannot raise,
He them to his mean Level would debase.
Acting like Demons, that would All deprive
Of Heav'n, to which themselves can ne'er arrive.

Poor in my youth, and in life's later scenes
Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour;
Who nought enjoy'd, while young, denied the means;
And nought, when old, enjoy'd, denied the pow'r.

The poor benighted Hindoo,
He does the besThe kindoo;
— He sticks to caste
— From first to last;
— For pants he makes his skindoo.

O all ye nations of the Lord,
Praise ye the Lord always;
And all ye people everywhere
Set forth His noble praise.
For great His kindness is to His,
His truth endures for aye;
Wherefore praise ye the Lord our God,
Praise ye the Lord I say.

Please to remember
The Fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot;
I see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

Search the Seas depth but not find
The hid paths in womans mind,
The obscure waies of her will,
Constant in inconstant ill;
Measure to all else is common,
There's no Labirynth but a woman.