(WORDSWORTH: _Peter Bell._ 1798.) _ababb_ Survival of the fittest, adaptation, And all their other evolution terms, Seem to omit one small consideration, To wit, that tumblebugs and angleworms Have souls: there's soul in everything that squirms. (WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY: _The Menagerie._ 1901.) _aabbb_ Mary mine that art Mary's Rose, Come in to me from the garden-close. The sun sinks fast with the rising dew, And we marked not how the faint moon grew; But the hidden stars are calling you. (ROSSETTI: _Rose Mary._ 1881.) _aabcdd_ Hail seint michel, with the lange sper! Fair beth thi winges: up thi scholder Thou hast a rede kirtil a non to thi fote. Thou ert best angle that ever god makid. This vers is ful wel i-wrogȝt; Hit is of wel furre y-brogȝt. (_Satire on the People of Kildare_, from Harleian Ms. 913, in Guest's _English Rhythms_, Skeat ed., p. 616.) _aaaabb_ What beauty would have lovely styled, What manners pretty, nature mild, What wonder perfect, all were filed Upon record in this blest child. And till the coming of the soul To fetch the flesh, we keep the roll. (BEN JONSON: _Epitaph; Underwoods, liii._ 1616.) _ababab_ She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies: And all that's best of dark or bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. (BYRON: _She Walks in Beauty._ 1815.) _ababcc_ I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. (WORDSWORTH: _I wandered lonely as a cloud._ 1804.) O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow! Her eyes seen in her tears, tears in her eye; Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow,-- Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry; But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again. (SHAKSPERE: _Venus and Adonis_, st. 161. 1593.) _ababbcc_ ("_Rime royal_") Humblest of herte, hyest of reverence, Benigne flour, coroune of vertues alle, Sheweth unto your rial excellence Your servaunt, if I durste me so calle, His mortal harm, in which he is y-falle, And noght al only for his evel fare, But for your renoun, as he shal declare. (CHAUCER: _Compleynte unto Pite._ ab. 1370.) And on the smale grene twistis sat The lytil suete nyghtingale, and song So loud and clere, the ympnis consecrat Of luvis use, now soft now lowd among, That all the gardynis and the wallis rong Ryght of thaire song, and on the copill next Of thaire suete armony, and lo the text. (JAMES I. of Scotland: _The King's Quhair_, st. 33. ab. 1425.)