All Mr. Yeats's grotesque machinery of sowlths and tevishes and sheogues leaves us without a shudder; his fantasies are stage-properties of the most unillusive kind.

What over-charged piece of melancholie / Is this, breakes in betweene my wishes thus, / With bombing sighs?

Summer’s affirmation of Harvest’s evident unmiserliness—“I credit thee, and thinke thou wert belide” (890)—is an attempt to pacify a provoked husbandman, who is obviously unused to courtly manners and has threatened to make use of his scythe.

Some renowned metropolis / With glistering spires and pinnacles around.