1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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