The appointed winners in a long-stretch'd game;
The course of Time and nations — Egypt, India, Greece and Rome;
The past entire, with all its heroes, histories, arts, experiments,
Its store of songs, inventions, voyages, teachers, books,
Garner'd for now and thee — To think of it!
The heirdom all converged in thee!

Apples be ripe
And nuts be brown,
Petticoats up
And trousers down.

Apple-pie, apple-pie,
Peter likes apple-pie;
So do I, so do I.

Of this high grace with blisse conioyn'd,
No further debt on me is laid;
Since that is selfe-same metall coin'd,
Sweet ladie, you remaine well paid;
For if my place giue me great pleasure,
Hauing before me Nature's treasure,
In face and eyes vnmatched being,
You haue the same in my hands, seeing
What in your face mine eyes do measure
Nor thinke the match vneu'nly made,
That of those beames in you do tarie

The glasse to you but giues a shade,
To me mine eyes the true shape carie;
For such a thought most highlie prized,

Apollo now, Sol's carman, drives his stud
Home to the mews that's seated in the West,
And Customs' clerks, like him, through Thames Street mud,
Now westering wend, in Holland trowsers dress'd.

So from the stands the empty carts are dragg'd,
The horses homeward to their stables go,
And mine, with hauling heavy hogsheads fagg'd,
Prepare to taste the luxury of — " Wo! "

Now from the slaughter-houses cattle roar,
Knowing that with the morn their lives they yields,
And Mr Sweetman's gig is at the door,

Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
Death and the Raven drift above
And Sweeney guards the horned gate.

Gloomy Orion and the Dog
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The person in the Spanish cape
Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees

Slips and pulls the table cloth
Overturns a coffee-cup,
Reorganised upon the floor
She yawns and draws a stocking up;

The silent man in mocha brown

An ape, a lion, a fox and an ass
Do show forth man's life as it were in a glass;
For apish we are till twenty-and-one,
And after that lions till forty be gone;
Then witty as foxes till threescore and ten,
And after that asses, and so no more men.

A dove, a sparrow, a parrot, a crow,
As plainly set forth how you women may know;
Harmless they are till thirteen be gone,
Then wanton as sparrows till forty draws on;
Then prating as parrots till threescore be o'er,
Then birds of ill omen, and women no more.

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.

Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still

I.

O H ! nymph of pallid hue, and raven hair,
 That in sequester'd scenes art wont to rest,
 Deep-nurturing in thy sorrow-heaving breast
Some weight of grief, that none with thee may share;
Whose eye, whence tears have long forgot to flow,
 To Heaven directed looks, of earth afraid:
How sacred gleams that form of speechless woe!
 And sacred are thy haunts, thou solitary maid!

II.

Oft art thou seen beside the willowy stream;
 And, thouh no youthful smile adorn thy face,
 Though on thy cheek no roses we may trace,

1663 1728
Grim Cotton Mather
Was always seeing witches,
Daylight, moonlight,
They buzzed about his head,
Pinching him and plaguing him
With aches and pains and stitches,
Witches in his pulpit,
Witches by his bed.

Nowadays, nowadays,
We'd say that he was crazy,
But everyone believed him
In old Salem town
And nineteen people
Were hanged for Salem witches
Because of Cotton Mather
And his long, black gown.

Old Cotton Mather
Didn't die happy.
He could preach and thunder,
He could fast and pray,