Let Taylor preach upon a morning breezy

How well to rise while nights and larks are flying —

For my part getting up seems not so easy

By half as lying.

What if the lark does carol in the sky,

Soaring beyond the sight to find him out —

Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?

I’m not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,

The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime —

Only lee long enough, and bed becomes

A bed of time.

To me Dan Phoebus and his car are nought,

His steeds that paw impatiently about —

Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,

The first turn-out!

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear

Besprinkled by the rosy-finger’d girl;

What then — if I prefer my pillow-beer

To early pearl?

My stomach is not ruled by o............