Where other people would make preserves,
He turns his fruits into pickles:
Jealous, envious, and fretful by day,
At night, to his own sharp fancies a prey,
He lies like a hedgehog roll'd up the wrong way,
Tormenting himself with his prickles.
CLXXXIX.
But a child—that bids the world good night
In downright earnest and cuts it quite—
A Cherub no Art can copy,—