Season

1 Spring|     nightingale.~You put to scorn the sound of organ, lute
2 Spring| homely sparrow's mate. ~You scorn the regal robes, despise
3 Spring|    more when he proceeds to scorn the Lord -~And with each
4 Spring|  the sleek French could not scorn our fine men. ~"Yes," Prickus
5 Summer|   down? ~It is because they scorn the fruitful work of boors, ~
6 Summer| lamented squire would never scorn a boor, ~But like a father,
7 Summer|   the boors as knaves, ~And scorn their rustic ways and their
8 Winter|    one of you ~Who dares to scorn the word of the just chief
9 Winter|      What right have you to scorn our upright workingmen? ~