How many a thing which we cast to the ground

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.

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

First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill.

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

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!

Earth, the mother of all, Moves on her stedfast way, Gathering, flinging, sowing. Mortals, we live in her day, She in her children is growing.