The Glorious Lamp Of Heaven, The Sun.

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

For Pitty, Sir, Find Out That Bee Which Bore My Love Away I'le Seek Him In Your Bonnet Brave, I'le Seek Him In Your Eyes.

Whatever Comes, Let's Be Content Withal: Among God's Blessings There Is No One Small.

Let's Live With That Small Pittance Which We Have; Who Covets More Is Evermore A Slave.

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.