Seldom Comes Glory Till A Man Be

Tis Not The Food, But The Content, That Makes The Table's Merriment.

Bid Me Despair, And I'll Despair,under That Cypress Tree;or Bid Me Die, And I Will Daree'en Death, To Die For Thee.

A Careless Shoe String, In Whose Tie I See A Wilde Civility.

Hell Is No Other But A Soundlesse Pit, Where No One Beame Of Comfort Peeps In It.

I Sing Of Brooks, Of Blossoms, Birds, And Bowers: Of April, May, Or June, And July Flowers. I Sing Of Maypoles, Hock-carts, Wassails, Wakes, Of Bridegrooms, Brides, And Of The Bridal Cakes.