My Friends Were Poor, But Honest, So's

Who Finds The Heifer Dead And Bleeding Fresh And Sees Fast-by A Butcher With An Axe, But Will Suspect 'twas He That Made The Slaughter?

A Light Heart Lives Long.

Who Is Silvia What Is She, That All Our Swains Commend Her Holy, Fair, And Wise Is She.

How Lush And Lusty The Grass Looks! How Green!

Yet Nor The Lays Of Birds Nor The Sweet Smell Of Different Flowers In Odour And In Hue Could Make Me Any Summer's Story Tell, Or From Their Proud Lap Pluck Them Where They Grew; Nor Did I Wonder At The Lily's White, Nor Praise The Deep Vermilion In The Rose; They Were But Sweet, But Figures Of Delight, Drawn After You, You Pattern Of All Those.