Aaron Hill

At night, to his own sharp fancies a prey,
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way,
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At night, to his own sharp fancies a prey,
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way,
Tormenting himself with his prickles.

Tender-handed stroke a nettle,
And it stings you for your pains;
Grasp it like a man of read more

Tender-handed stroke a nettle,
And it stings you for your pains;
Grasp it like a man of mettle,
And it soft as silk remains.
'Tis the same with common natures,
Use 'em kindly, they rebel;
But, be rough as nutmeg-graters,
And the rogues obey you well.

A man may cry, Church! Church! at ev'ry word,
With no pore piety than other people--
A read more

A man may cry, Church! Church! at ev'ry word,
With no pore piety than other people--
A daw's not reckoned a religious bird
Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple.

There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in melancholy.

There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in melancholy.

But, oh! the love that gold must crown!

But, oh! the love that gold must crown!