"Witness his goodly vessels on the Thames, Whose holds were fraught with costly merchandise,-- Jewels from Ind, and pearls for courtly dames, And gorgeous silks that Samarcand supplies: Witness that Royal Bourse he bade arise, The mart of merchants from the East and West: Whose slender summit, pointing to the skies, Still bears, in token of his grateful breast, The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest--" LXXXVI. "The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest, That all the summer, with a tuneful wing, Makes merry chirpings in its grassy nest, Inspirited with dew to leap and sing:-- So let us also live, eternal King! Partakers of the green and pleasant earth:-- Pity it is to slay the meanest thing, That, like a mote, shines in the smile of mirth:-- Enough there is of joy's decrease and dearth!" LXXXVII. "Enough of pleasure, and delight, and beauty, Perish'd and gone, and hasting to decay;-- Enough to sadden even thee, whose duty Or spite it is to havoc and to slay: Too many a lovely race razed quite away, Hath left large gaps in life and human loving;-- Here then begin thy cruel war to stay, And spare fresh sighs, and tears, and groans, reproving Thy desolating hand for our removing." LXXXVIII. Now here I heard a shrill and sudden cry, And, looking up, I saw the antic Puck Grappling with Time, who clutch'd him like a fly, Victim of his own sport,--the jester's luck! He, whilst his fellows grieved, poor wight, had stuck His freakish gauds upon the Ancient's brow, And now his ear, and now his beard, would pluck; Whereas the angry churl had snatched him now, Crying, "Thou impish mischief, who art thou?" LXXXIX. "Alas!" quoth Puck, "a little random elf, Born in the sport of nature, like a weed, For simple sweet enjoyment of myself, But for no other purpose, worth, or need; And yet withal of a most happy breed; And there is Robin Goodfellow besides, My partner dear in many a prankish deed To make dame Laughter hold her jolly sides, Like merry mummers twain on holy tides." XC. "'Tis we that bob the angler's idle cork, Till e'en the patient man breathes half a curse; We steal the morsel from the gossip's fork, And curdling looks with secret straws disperse, Or stop the sneezing chanter at mid verse: And when an infant's beauty prospers ill, We change, some mothers say, the child at nurse: But any graver purpose to fulfil, We have not wit enough, and scarce the will." XCI. "We never let the canker melancholy To gather on our faces like a rust, But glass our features with some change of folly, Taking life's fabled miseries on trust, But only sorrowing when sorrow must: We ruminate no sage's solemn cud, But own ourselves a pinch of lively dust To frisk upon a wind,--whereas the flood Of tears would turn us into heavy mud." XCII.