On the batโs back I do fly After summer merrily.
Who can be patient in extremes?
But she makes hungry Where she most satisfies.
Trust not your daughter's minds By what you see them act.
Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Crack'd in pieces by malignant Death.