The Tables Turned Up! up! my friend, and quit your books; Or surely you’ll grow double; Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun above the yardarm shone, And at your suit I reckon, But how of all this sitting here, And pruning in discomfort?
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauty of her kings, Yet it can still protect!
- William Wordsworth