We will not woo foul weather all too soon,
Or nurse November on the lap of June."


XCIII.

"For ours are winging sprites, like any bird,
That shun all stagnant settlements of grief;
And even in our rest our hearts are stirr'd,
Like insects settled on a dancing leaf:--
This is our small philosophy in brief,
Which thus to teach hath set me all agape:
But dost thou relish it? O hoary chief!
Unclasp thy crooked fingers from my nape,
And I will show thee many a pleasant scrape."


XCIV.

Then Saturn thus:--shaking his crooked blade
O'erhead, which made aloft a lightning flash
In all the fairies' eyes, dismally fray'd!
His ensuing voice came like the thunder crash--
Meanwhile the bolt shatters some pine or ash--
"Thou feeble, wanton, foolish, fickle thing!
Whom nought can frighten, sadden, or abash,--
To hope my solemn countenance to wring
To idiot smiles!--but I will prune thy wing!"