Hang There Like Fruit, My

Old Fashions Please Me Best; I Am Not So Nice To Change True Rules For Odd Inventions.

Rude Am I In My Speech, And Little Blessed With The Soft Phrase Of Peace.

So Sweet Was Ne'er So Fatal. I Must Weep. But They Are Creul Tears. This Sorrow's Heavenly; It Strikes Where It Doth Love.

O World, How Apt The Poor Are To Be Proud!

Now, Good Digestion Wait On Appetite, And Health On Both!