Page:Life of William Blake, Pictor ignotus (Volume 2).djvu/113

96 {| align="center" The poor man's farthing is worth more Than all the gold on Afric's shore. The whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build that nation's fate; The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave old England's winding-sheet; The winner's shout, the loser's curse, Shall dance before dead England's hearse.

He who mocks the infant's faith Shall be mocked in age and death; He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne'er get out; He who respects the infant's faith Triumphs over hell and death; The babe is more than swaddling hands Throughout all these human lands; Tools were made and horn were hands, Every farmer understands. The questioner who sits so sly Shall never know how to reply; He who replies to words of doubt Doth put the light of knowledge out; A puddle, or the cricket's cry, Is to doubt a fit reply; The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons; The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame philosophy to smile; A truth that's told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent. He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please; If the sun and moon should doubt, They'd immediately go out.

Every night and every morn Some to misery are born; Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight;
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