A FINE THING

Who am I with noble face,
Shining in a clear blue place?
If to look at me you try,
I shall blind your little eye.
When my noble face I show,
Over yonder mountain blue,
All the clouds away do ride,
And the dusky night beside.
Then the clear wet dews I dry
With the look of my bright eye;
And the little birds awake,
Many a merry tune to make.
Cowslips, then, and harebells blue,
And lily-cups their leaves undo;
For they shut themselves up tight,
All the dark and foggy night.
Then the busy people go,
Some to plow, and some to sow;
When I leave, their work is done,
Guess if I am not the Sun.
--Jane Taylor.

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MADONNA AND CHILD
By Georg Papperitz

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A PRETTY THING

Who am I that shines so bright
With my pretty yellow light,
Peeping through your curtains gray?
Tell me, little girl, I pray.
When the sun is gone, I rise
In the very silent skies;
And a cloud or two doth skim
Round about my silver rim.
All the little stars do seem
Hidden by my brighter beam;
And among them I do ride,
Like a queen in all her pride.
Then the reaper goes along,
Singing forth a merry song,
While I light the shaking leaves
And the yellow harvest sheaves.
Little girl, consider well,
Who this simple tale doth tell;
And I think you'll guess it soon,
For I only am the Moon.
--Ann Taylor.

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THE SHEEP

Lazy sheep, pray tell me why
In the pleasant fields you lie,
Eating grass or daisies white,
From the morning till the night?
Everything can something do,
But what kind of use are you?
Nay, my little master, nay,
Do not serve me so, I pray.
Don't you see the wool that grows
On my back to make your clothes?
Cold, and very cold you'd be,
If you had not wool from me.
True, it seems a pleasant thing
To nip the daisies in the spring;
But many chilly nights I pass
On the cold and dewy grass,
Or pick a scanty dinner where
All the common's brown and bare.
Then the farmer comes at last,
When the merry spring is past,
And cuts my woolly coat away,
To warm you in the winter's day.
Little master, this is why
In the pleasant fields I lie.
--Jane Taylor.

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