He knows you not, ye heavenly powers!
And his great merit grudged to recognise,Now feels the impress of his wondrous might,
'Tis not yet high, I can wade right well."
She alone 'tis blesses him.
Before thine anger I cower;But blows I dread not, nor sharp-edged knife,--
Sir Parson and Sir Bailiff, again,
THE bed of flowers
Through the open door with silent tread.
Hateful tones assail the ear.Laughter wild (exchange how mournful!)
Therefore in each heavy hour,
They begin with their sweethearts the ball.The fife and the fiddle all merrily sound,Thy twine, and they glide, and with nimbleness bound,Thy whisper, and chatter, and, chatter around;
To gain love's sweet reward.
And now the small one see!A modest look has he,And yet he's such apotherAs his big roguish brother.'Tis chiefly when all's stillHe loves to show his will.The bird so small and bold,--He's brought here to be sold.
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