And of their doings God takes no account. To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east With first approach of light, we must be risen, And at our pleasant labour, to reform Yon flowery arbours, yonder alleys green, Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, That mock our scant manuring, and require More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth. Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unsmooth, Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease; Meanwhile, as Nature wills, night bids us rest.”