The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!

Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.

O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.

Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.

There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.

The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!

He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.