Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumb, Deaf and dumb, Twirl the carle so troublesome! Kinsman, once so full of glee, Kinsman, where's thy drollery, Where thy tricks, thou cunning one? All thy tricks are spent and past, To the devil gone at last Like a silly fop thou'lt prate, Like a washerwoman rate. Thou art but a simpleton. Now thou mayest--more shame to thee-- Run away, because of me; Cupid, that young rogue, may glory Learning wisdom from thy story; Haste, thou sluggard, hence to flee As from glass is cut our wit, So, like lightning, 'twill be split; If thou won't be chased away, Let each folly also stay Seest my meaning? Think of me! Idle one, away with thee! SPINOSA. A mighty oak here ruined lies, Its top was wont to kiss the skies, Why is it now o'erthrown?-- The peasants needed, so they said, Its wood wherewith to build a shed, And so they've cut it down. TO THE FATES. Not in the crowd of masqueraders gay, Where coxcombs' wit with wondrous splendor flares, And, easier than the Indian's net the prey, The virtue of young beauties snares;-- Not at the toilet-table of the fair, Where vanity, as if before an idol, bows, And often breathes a warmer prayer Than when to heaven it pays its vows; And not behind the curtain's cunning veil, Where the world's eye is hid by cheating night, And glowing flames the hearts assail, That seemed but chilly in the light,-- Where wisdom we surprise with shame-dyed lip, While Phoebus' rays she boldly drinks, Where men, like thievish children, nectar sip, And from the spheres e'en Plato sinks-- To ye--to ye, O lonely sister-band, Daughters of destiny, ascend, When o'er the lyre all-gently sweeps my hand, These strains, where bliss and sadness blend. You only has no sonnet ever wooed, To win your gold no usurer e'er sighed No coxcomb e'er with plaints your steps pursued, For you, Arcadian shepherd ne'er has died. Your gentle fingers ye forever ply, Life's nervous thread with care to twist, Till sound the clanging shears, and fruitlessly The tender web would then resist. Since thou my thread of life hast kindly spun, Thy hand, O Clotho, I now kiss! Since thou hast spared that life whilst scarce begun, Receive this nosegay, Lachesis! Full often thorns upon the thread, But oftener roses, thou hast strung; For thorns and roses there outspread, Clotho, to thee this lay be sung! Oft did tempestuous passions rise, And threat to break the thread by force; Oft projects of gigantic size Have checked its free, unfettered course. Oft, in sweet hours of heavenly bliss, Too fine appeared the thread to me; Still oftener, when near sorrow's dark abyss, Too firm its fabric seemed to be.