You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

Oh God! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times Make Mountains Level, And The Continent, Weary Of Solid Firmness, Melt Itself Into The Sea.

How Low Am I, Thou Painted Maypole?

Short Time Seems Long In Sorrow's Sharp Sustaining.

But When I Came, Alas, To Wive, With Hey, Ho, The Wind And The Rain, By Swaggering Could I Never Thrive, For The Rain It Raineth Every Day.

But Flies An Eagle Flight, Bold And Forth On, Leaving No Tract Behind.