No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.

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

For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.

No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.

And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.

Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!

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.