The jolly sheaves of corn do lie,
Which the sun, arch-chemist of old,
Turn’d from black earth into gold,
And the swinging flail one day
On the barn-floor shall assay,
Separating the pure ore
From the drossy chaff away.
This I’ve been about. And now,
Juanito, what hast thou?
Juan. Alas, sir, I ca answer in so good rhyme or reason. I have been playing at fives, and lost every bout.