A pipe to smoke, and ale that's mulled, With walnuts fresh enough to peel; The voice of Love, that comes and goes, And brings a kiss between each meal; A day that's hot, for a shady tree, A night that's cold, for a cosy bed; A brain that starved for lovelier dreams, A body light, and daintily fed; A search for keys no man can find, To turn the lock of Life and Death: With these my stock, my song is done— And, tell me, do I waste my breath? |