Earth, the mother of all

Into the breast that gives the rose, Shall I with shuddering fall?

It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor!--don't they love rarely Fighting the devil in other men's fields!

I've studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and I reckon, rather true. Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy; Most, a dash between the two.

See ye not, Courtesy Is the true Alchemy, Turning to gold all it touches and tries?

First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill.

For singing till his heaven fills, 'Tis love of earth that he instils, And ever winging up and up, Our valley is his golden cup, And he the wine which overflows To lift us with him as he goes.