Rats They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles. Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.

But there are times when patience proves at fault.

All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.

The only fault's with time; All men become good creatures: but so slow!

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.

Lose who may-I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they!

God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.