|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.