To mend all matters high and low,
He’ll find no rest full surely.
In his chair of ease a thorn will grow,
The gall will in his bladder flow,
Thick seeds of sorrow he will sow,
And make his dearest friend a foe,
And go to the grave prematurely.
One day he sate beside the fire,
With all things square to his desire
—A wintry day, when Boreas blew