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The Cock was of a larger egg
A private life was all his joy,
He stooped and clutched him, fair and good, Flew over roof and casement:
His brothers of the weather stood
Stock-still for sheer amazement.
But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire,
A sign to many a staring shire,
Right down by smoky Paul's they bore,
And one became head-waiter.
But whither would my fancy go?
Among the chops and steaks! "Tis but a steward of the can,
One shade more plump than common ; As just and mere a serving-man As any, born of woman.
I ranged too high: what draws me down Into the common day?
Is it the weight of that half-crown,
I sit, (my empty glass reversed,)
Half-fearful that, with self at strife,
For I had hope, by something rare,
But, while I plan and plan, my hair
So fares it since the years began,
The truth that flies the flowing can,
Will haunt the vacant cup:
And others' follies teach us not,
Nor much their wisdom teaches; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches.
Ah! let the rusty theme alone!
'Tis gone a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces,
And fallen into the dusty crypt
Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went Long since, and came no more: With peals of genial clamor sent From many a tavern-door,
With twisted quirks and happy hits,
From misty men of letters;
The tavern-hours of mighty wits-
Hours, when the Poet's words and looks
Had made him talk for show;
So mix forever with the past,
For should I prize thee, couldst thou last,
I hold it good, good things should pass :
It is but yonder empty glass
Head-waiter of the chop-house here,
To which I most resort,
I too must part: I hold thee dear
For this, thou shalt from all things suck
And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck
But thou wilt never move from hence.
Thy latter days increased with pence
We fret, we fume, would shift our skins,
Live long, ere from thy topmost head
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread
Live long, nor feel in head or chest
Till mellow Death, like some late guest,
But when he calls, and thou shalt cease
And, laying down an unctuous lease
No carved cross-bones, the types of Death,
IT was the time when lilies blow,
I trow they did not part in scorn :
"He does not love me for my birth,
In there came old Alice the nurse,
Said, "Who was this that went from thee?" "It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, "To-morrow he weds with me."
“O God be thanked!" said Alice the nurse, "That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare.”
"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my
Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" "As God's above," said Alice the nurse,
"I speak the truth: you are my child.
"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast;
"Falsely, falsely have ye done,
O mother," she said, "if this be true,
Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse,
"If I'm a beggar born," she said,
"I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by."