Ah, happy world, where all things live

A place of dream, the Holy Land Hangs midway between earth and heaven.

He is one of those people to whom you must allow moods,—when their sun shines, dance,—and when their vapors rise, sit in the shadow.

Beauty vanishes like a vapor, Preach the men of musty morals.

The awful phantom of the hungry poor.

The sunn must lend his goulden beames, Soft windes their breath, green trees their shade, Sweete fields their flowers, cleare springs their streams, Ere such another smyle bee made.

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice!