Great things are done when men and mountains meet；

    This is not done by jostling in the street.

    ii

    To God

    If you have form'd a circle to go into，

    Go into it yourself， and see how you would do.

    iii

    They said this mystery never shall cease：

    The priest promotes war， and the soldier peace.

    iv

    An Answer to the Parson

    Why of the sheep do you not learn peace？

    Because I don't want you to shear my fleece.

    v

    Lacedaemonian Instruction

    Come hither， my boy， tell me what thou seest there.

    A fool tangled in a religious snare.

    vi

    Nail his neck to the cross： nail it with a nail.

    Nail his neck to the cross： ye all have power over his tail.

    vii

    Love to faults is always blind；

    Always is to joy inclin'd，

    Lawless， wing'd and unconfin'd，

    And breaks all chains from every mind.

    Deceit to secrecy confin'd，

    Lawful， cautious and refin'd；

    To anything but interest blind，

    And forges fetters for the mind.

    viii

    There souls of men are bought and sold，

    And milk-fed Infancy for gold；

    And Youth to slaughter-houses led，

    And Beauty， for a bit of bread.

    ix

    Soft Snow

    I walkèd abroad on a snowy day：

    I ask'd the soft Snow with me to play：

    She play'd and she melted in all her prime；

    And the Winter call'd it a dreadful crime.

    x

    Abstinence sows sand all over

    The ruddy limbs and flaming hair，

    But Desire gratified

    Plants fruits of life and beauty there.

    xi

    Merlin's Prophecy

    The harvest shall flourish in wintry weather

    When two Virginities meet together：

    The king and the priest must be tied in a tether

    Before two Virgins can meet together.

    xii

    If you trap the moment before it's ripe，

    The tears of repentance you'll certainly wipe；

    But if once you let the ripe moment go，

    You can never wipe off the tears of woe.

    xiii

    An Old Maid early ere I knew

    Aught but the love that on me grew；

    And now I'm cover'd o'er and o'er，

    And wish that I had been a whore.

    O！ I cannot， cannot find

    The undaunted courage of a virgin mind；

    For early I in love was crost，

    Before my flower of love was lost.

    xiv

    The sword sung on the barren heath，

    The sickle in the fruitful field：

    The sword he sung a song of death，

    But could not make the sickle yield.

    xv

    O lapwing！ thou fliest around the heath，

    Nor seest the net that is spread beneath.

    Why dost thou not fly among the corn fields？

    They cannot spread nets where a harvest yields.

    xvi

    Terror in the house does roar；

    But Pity stands before the door.