Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.
Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
Let us be merciful as well as just.
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.
Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!