'Tis spring; come out to ramble
The hilly brakes around,
For under thorn and bramble
About the hollow ground
The primroses are found.
And there's the windflower chilly
With all the winds at play,
And there's the Lenten lily
That has not long to stay
And dies on Easter day.
'Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with Daisies lie- That Commerce will continue- And Trades as briskly fly.
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.
'Tis the business of little minds to shrink; but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his principles unto death.
'Tis the common disease of all your musicians that they know no mean, to be entreated, either to begin or end.
'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free.
'Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone.
'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions are faded and gone.
'Tis the maddest trick a man can ever play in his whole life, to let his breath sneak out of his body without any more ado, and without so much as a rap o'er the pate, or a kick of the guts; to go out like the snuff of a farthing candle, and die merely of the mulligrubs, or the sullens.
'Tis the most certain sign, the world's accurst
That the best things corrupted, are the worst;
'Twas the corrupted Light of knowledge, hurl'd
Sin, Death, and Ignorance o'er all the world;
That Sun like this (from which our sight we have)
Gaz'd on too long, resumes the light he gave.
'Tis the only comfort of the miserable to have partners in their woes.
'Tis the set of the sail that decides the goal, and not the storm of life.
'Tis the sharpness of our mind that gives the edge to our pains and pleasures.
'Tis the temper of the hot and superstitious part of mankind in matters of religion ever to be fond of mysteries, and for that reason to like best what they understand least.
'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, you have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.
'Tis the white stag, Fame, we're a-hunting,
Bid the world's hounds come to horn!
'Tis the white stag, Fame, we're a-hunting, bid the world's hounds come to horn!
'Tis they who are in their own chambers haunted By thoughts that like unbidden guests intrude, And sit down, uninvited and unwanted, And make a nightmare of the solitude.
'Tis time, my friend, 'tis time! For rest the heart is aching; Days follow days in flight, and every day is taking, Fragments of being, while together you and I, Make plans to live. Look, all is dust, and we shall die.