Behold a jocund morn indeed
Sun on high, birds in sky
Yonder the whist firth eathing
For where a gale erranteth
That is a lie (Ye beholdest but the shadow)
Lief I am not (Mayhap a tithe of trothplight)
My words are but a twist (I deem, e'er and anon)

'Tis a feignéd lie through loathing, I say
(To and fro, save hither, is thy love)
A dotard gaffer, I daresay...
(Not a loth, but vying for my kinsmen)
... A sapling not

(Beautiful tyrant
Fiend angelical
Dove-feathered raven
Wolvish-ravening lamb
A hamlet for a slothful vassal
Soothing ale for a parchèd sot
Hie to tell me what ye judgest as naught
I behold the shadow)

Wherefore call me such names
Nay imp am I
Thou art my aghast hart
Grazing in the glade
That is a lie (e'er thou sayest aye)
Lief I am not (thief of a plot)
My words are but a twist (now go to thy tryst)

Go, leave, totter -- Fare well! - with joy I came
Until ye dwindlest. -- With rue I leave.
A morsel, nay more, -- Even the orb cannot
For thy journey -- Help me melt the ice?
Hither an thither