The deer which lives
On the evergreen mountain
Where there are no autumn-leaves
Can know the coming of autumn
Only by its own cry.

A shrimp! Black thing as widow's crape
In its primeval, vital shape;
Red as a soldier's coat of cloth
When stewed alive in native broth;
Armed with such tusks at sides and jowl
Would choke a dog to swallow whole;
Seeming (good simile, I hope)
Like flea in cloist'ring microscope,
With staring eyes and whiskers long;
Now — contradict me, if I'm wrong.
A shrimp! (theme ample as I'd wish)
Affords the angler bait to fish;
And cooked up by the kitchen lass

So stupid of me to hope you'll take to books;
a scholar all my life, I want to raise you the same way.
Baby squalls that to other ears are nothing but noise —
sooner or later they'll give way to the student's drone.

No fields, no house, one poor scholar,
but I have a child, and to my delight it's a boy!
A few paintings, a pair of old inkstones:
your father offers them to you — but will you accept them?

Fist like the mountain fern half unfurled,
skin like the pomegranate when the blossom has just dropped;
all you do is howl, searching for your mother's breast;
beautiful baby eyes that have not learned to tell their father.

BOWZYBEUS .

Sublimer strains, O rustick Muse, prepare;
Forget a-while the barn and dairy's care;
Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise,
The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays,
With Bowzybeus ' songs exalt thy verse,
While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse.
'Twas in the season when the reapers toil
Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil;
Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout,
Clean damsels bound the gather'd sheaves about,
The lads with sharpen'd hook and sweating brow

BUMKINET, GRUBBINOL.

BUMKINET .

Why , Grubbinol , dost thou so wistful seem?
There's sorrow in thy look, if right I deem,
'Tis true, yon oaks with yellow tops appear,
And chilly blasts begin to nip the year;
From the tall elm a show'r of leaves is born,
And their lost beauty riven beeches mourn.
Yet ev'n this season pleasance blithe affords,
Now the squeez'd press foams with our apple hoards.
Come, let us hye, and quaff a cheary bowl,
Let cyder new wash sorrow from thy soul .

GRUBBINOL .

Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, Cloddipole.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
No thrustles shrill the bramble-bush forsake,
No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes;
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant the dawn appear,
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear?

CUDDY.

Ah Lobbin Clout ! I ween, my plight is guest.
For he that loves, a stranger is to rest ;
If swains belye not, thou hast prov'd the smart,
And Blouzelinda 's mistress of thy heart.

Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, Cloddipole.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
No thrustles shrill the bramble-bush forsake,
No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes;
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant the dawn appear,
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear?

CUDDY.

Ah Lobbin Clout ! I ween, my plight is guest.
For he that loves, a stranger is to rest ;
If swains belye not, thou hast prov'd the smart,
And Blouzelinda 's mistress of thy heart.

SPARABELLA .

T HE wailings of a maiden I recite,
A maiden fair, that Sparabella hight.
Such strains ne'er warble in the linnet's throat,
Nor the gay goldfinch chaunts so sweet a note.
No magpye chatter'd, nor the painted jay,
No ox was heard to low, nor ass to bray.
No rusling breezes play'd the leaves among,
While thus her madrigal the damsel sung.
A while, O D'Urfey , lend an ear or twain,
Nor, though in homely guise, my verse disdain;
Whether thou seek'st new kingdoms in the sun,