My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.
And angling too, that solitary vice, What Izaak Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.
My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
My altars are the mountains and the ocean.
Who then will explain the explanation?
Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!