And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.
Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!