A line will take us hours maybe:
yet it does not seem a moment;s thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be Thought an idler by the noisy set of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The Martyrs call the world.