And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,
Which, when it bite and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
’Tis no flattery; these are counselors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,