I came into the City and none knew me;
None came forth, none shouted ‘He is here!
Not a hand with laurel would bestrew me,
All the way by which I drew anear- ...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.