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 shear1 my fleece.
v
Lacedaemonian Instruction
Come hither， my boy， tell me what thou seest there.
A fool tangled2 in a religious snare3.
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 secrecy4 confin'd，
Lawful5， cautious and refin'd；
To anything but interest blind，
And forges fetters6 for the mind.
viii
There souls of men are bought and sold，
And milk-fed Infancy7 for gold；
And Youth to slaughter-houses led，
And Beauty， for a bit of bread.
ix
Soft Snow
I walkd 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 Virgins9 can meet together.
xii
If you trap the moment before it's ripe，
The tears of repentance10 you'll certainly wipe；
But if once you let the ripe moment go，
You can never wipe off the tears of woe11.
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 virgin8 mind；
For early I in love was crost，
Before my flower of love was lost.
xiv
The sword sung on the barren heath，
The sickle12 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.
