Behold a jocund morn indeed Sun on high, birds in sky Yonder the whist firth eathing For where a gale erranteth That is a lie (Ye beholdest but the shadow) Lief I am not (Mayhap a tithe of trothplight) My words are but a twist (I deem, e'er and anon) 'Tis a feignéd lie through loathing, I say (To and fro, save hither, is thy love) A dotard gaffer, I daresay... (Not a loth, but vying for my kinsmen) ... A sapling not (Beautiful tyrant Fiend angelical Dove-feathered raven Wolvish-ravening lamb A hamlet for a slothful vassal Soothing ale for a parchèd sot Hie to tell me what ye judgest as naught I behold the shadow) Wherefore call me such names Nay imp am I Thou art my aghast hart Grazing in the glade That is a lie (e'er thou sayest aye) Lief I am not (thief of a plot) My words are but a twist (now go to thy tryst) Go, leave, totter -- Fare well! - with joy I came Until ye dwindlest. -- With rue I leave. A morsel, nay more, -- Even the orb cannot For thy journey -- Help me melt the ice? Hither an thither