Groans, and convulsions, and a discolored face, and friends weeping, and blacks, and obsequies, and the like, show death terrible.

It fell upon a holly eve, Hey ho, hollidaye! When holly fathers wont to shrieve, Now gynneth this roundelay.

I come from haunts of coot and hern, / I make a sudden sally, / And sparkle out among the fern, / To bicker down a valley.

[…] but Ethel romped with the little children — the rosy little trots — and took them on her knees, and told them a thousand stories.