The Knave of Hearts, He stole the Queen, Your fond manhood so tires, By tricks, devices and wiles. He stole the Queen, And wove her in your fate. An eye, a hand, A kiss, a smile, A crown of sop on the lonesome wood:

Where sunlight crests the verdant brow Of the blue hill, Where the blue hill has dribbled down, And rolled in a rock, A turtle dove’s Flight to heaven be sweet.

• William Hazlitt