Bid Me Despair, And I'll

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.

The May-pole Is Up, Now Give Me The Cup; I'll Drink To The Garlands Around It; But First Unto Those Whose Hands Did Compose The Glory Of Flowers That Crown'd It.

In Things A Moderation Keep; Kings Ought To Shear, Not Skin, Their Sheep.

Tis Hard To Find God, But To Comprehend Him, As He Is, Is Labour Without End.

Fain Would I Kiss My Julia's Dainty Leg, Which Is As White And Hairless As An Egg.