My good cloak a bat's wing gave,
And a beetle's wings my bonnet,
And a moth's head grew the brave,
Gallant feather on it.
Faith! I have rich jewels rare,
Rings and carcanets all studded
Thick with spiders' eyes, that glare
Like great rubies blooded.
And I swear, sirs, by my blade,
"Sirrah, a good stabbing hanger!"—
From a hornet's stinger made,—
When I am in anger.
Fill the lichen pottles up!
Honey pressed from hearts of roses;
Cheek by jowl, up with each cup
Till we hide our noses.
Good, sirs!—marry!—'tis the cock!
Hey, away! the moon's lost fire!
Ho! the cock our dial and clock—
Hide we 'neath this brier.
THE FARMSTEAD.
Yes, a lovely homestead; there
In the Spring your lilacs blew
Plenteous perfume everywhere;
There your gladiolas grew,
Parallels of scarlet glare.
And the moon-hued primrose cool,
Satin-soft and redolent;
Honey-suckles beautiful,
Balming all the air with scent;
Roses red or white as wool.