Go you and, with such glorious hues

Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp, Let's grimly kiss with bated breath; As quietly and solemnly As Life when it is kissing Death.

The collier's wife had four tall sons Brought from the pit's mouth dead, And crushed from foot to head

They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields, They cried so loud I could not sleep: For fifty thousand shillings down I would not sail again with sheep.

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content, Thou knowest of no strange continent; Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep A gentle motion with the deep; Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas, Where scent comes forth in every breeze.

Autumn grows old: he, like some simple one, In Summer's castaway is strangely clad

From my own kind I only learn How foolish comfort is