Long life to the hunter!
How, at evening's hour so fair,Thou a kindly hand didst reach us,
Shown in this flowery troop, over the garden dispers'd;any a name dost thou hear assign'd; one after another
Virtue in your pure cheek glows.Phoebus will attend our call
And the fish was captured straight.
What deep gulf, what bitter smart!Yes, 'tis thou, indeed, at last,
EARLY within his workshop here,On Sundays stands our master dear;His dirty apron he puts away,And wears a cleanly doublet to-day;Lets wax'd thread, hammer, and pincers rest,And lays his awl within his chest;The seventh day he takes reposeFrom many pulls and many blows.
This one more golden burden.
WHEN head and heart are busy, say,
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