A horror fell on those holy men
(The faithful legends say),
And one by one from the face of the earth
They pined and vanished away.
IV.
So goes the tale of the monkish books,
The moral who runs may read, -
He has no ears for Nature's voice
Whose soul is the slave of creed.
Not all in vain with beauty and love
Has God the world adorned;
And he who Nature scorns and mocks,
By Nature is mocked and scorned.
THE ENCHANTED SHIRT.
Fytte the First: wherein it shall be shown how the Truth is too mighty a
Drug for such as be of feeble temper.
The King was sick. His cheek was red
And his eye was clear and bright;
He ate and drank with a kingly zest,
And peacefully snored at night.
But he said he was sick, and a king should know,
And doctors came by the score.
They did not cure him. He cut off their heads
And sent to the schools for more.
At last two famous doctors came,
And one was as poor as a rat, -
He had passed his life in studious toil,
And never found time to grow fat.
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