Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.
Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!