A song that fails to make your face
Glimmer and glow with joy and glee,
Shows that minstrel's blood is cold,
His heart of heat and warmth is free.

That player on the flute who has
A conscience much defiled, impure
With puff of breath can make a tune
Replete with poison which hasn't cure.

I have visited the meads in East
And West, where tulips parks adorn,
But I have not beheld a park,
Where tulips have their collars torn.

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