The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn

He that is proud eats up himself; pride in his glass, his trumpet, his chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise

But to go to school in a summer morn, Oh, it drives all joy away! Under a cruel eye outworn, The little ones spend the day in sighing and dismay

This is the month and this the happy morn.

He was like the cock who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow

Was a glimpse of his cock worth a Mercedes?