Many a one retards me;
Flowers bend towards me;
But no one rewards me,
Though I labour all the day and night,
Working still with a will,
Turning the mill under the hill,
Tinkling all the——
Puck. Step forth from night, attirèd in her pearls.Pray be still;
You sing ill; we’ve had our fill,
And brook no singers here who’re out of sight.