English

1

If we no old historian's name
Authentique will admitt,
And thinke all said of friendship's fame
But poetry and wit:
Yet what's revered by minds so pure
Must be a bright Idea, sure.

2

But as our immortalitie
By inward sense we find,
Judging that if it could not be,
It would not be design'd:
So heare how could such copyes fall,
If there were no originall?

3

The victories of mind,
Are won for all mankind;
But war wastes what it wins,
Ends worse than it begins,
And is a game of woes,
Which nations always lose:
Though tyrant tyrant kill,
The slayer liveth still.

Wallace wight, upon a night,
Came riding oer the linn,
And he is to his leman's bower,
And tirld at the pin.

" O sleep ye, wake ye, lady?" he said,
" Ye 'll rise, lat me come in."
" O wha 's this at my bower-door,
That knocks, and knows my name?"
" My name is William Wallace,
Ye may my errand ken."

" The truth to you I will rehearse,
The secret I 'll unfold;
Into your enmies' hands this night
I fairly hae you sold."

" If that be true ye tell to me,
Do ye repent it sair?"

April is in my mistress' face,
And July in her eyes hath place,
Within her bosom is September,
But in her heart a cold December.

Approach this court with deference
— Lest silence strike you dumb.
The stark, judicial solitude
— Appraises all who come.

Submit your spirit; do not think
— To find recourse from these
Irrevocable judgments
— Of the parliament of trees.

Approach this court with deference
Lest silence strike you dumb.
The stark, judicial solitude
Appraises all who come.

Submit your spirit; do not think
To find recourse from these
Irrevocable judgments
Of the parliament of trees.

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.

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;

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.