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Might have been happy: but what lot is pure ?
Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine,
And so return'd unfarrow'd to her sty.
John. They found you out ?
What know we of the secret of a man?
His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are
That we should mimic this raw fool the world,
Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites,
As ruthless as a baby with a worm,
But put your best foot forward, or I fear
That we shall miss the mail: and here it comes
With five at top: as quaint a four-in-hand
you shall see--three pyebalds and a roan.
Of city life! I was a sketcher then:
See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge,
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built
When men knew how to build, upon a rock
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock:
And here, new-comers in an ancient hold,
New-comers from the Mersey, millionaires,
Here lived the Hills-a Tudor-chimnied bulk
Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers.
O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake
With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull
The curate; he was fatter than his cure.
But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names,
Long learned names of agaric, moss and fern, Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks,
Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim,
And once I ask'd him of his early life,
And his first passion; and he answer'd me;
And well his words became him : was he not
A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence
Stored from all flowers ? Poet-like he spoke.
“My love for Nature is as old as I; But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, And three rich sennights more, my love for her. My love for Nature and my love for her, Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew, Twin-sisters differently beautiful.
To some full music rose and sank the sun,
And some full music seem'd to move and change
For daily hope fulfill'd, to rise again
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe.':
Or this or something like to this he spoke. Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull,
“I take it, God made the woman for the man,
Ard for the good and increase of the world.
A pretty face is well, and this is well,
To have a dame indoors, that trims us up,
And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways
Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff.
I say, God made the woman for the man,
"Parson,” said I, “you pitch the pipe too low :
But I have sudden touches, and can run
My faith beyond my practice into his :
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill,
I do not hear the bells upon my cap,
I scarce have other music : yet say on.