We rise with the lark and go to bed with the lamb

In the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, Forth I walk’d by the wood-side Whenas May was in his pride: There I spièd all alone Phillida and Coridon.

Come little babe, come silly soul, Thy father’s shame, thy mother’s grief, Born as I doubt to all our dole, And to thyself unhappy chief: Sing lullaby, and lap it warm, Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.

I wish my deadly foe, no worse Than want of friends, and empty purse.

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.

What great Effects from slender Causes flow!

So All is diff’rent, and yet All is One.