Happy Is The Bride That

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.

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.

When The Artless Doctor Sees No One Hope, But Of His Fees, And His Skill Runs On The Lees; Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me! When His Potion And His Pill, Has, Or None, Or Little Skill, Meet For Nothing, But To Kill; Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me!

Tears Are The Noble Language Of The Eye.

Who After His Transgression Doth Repent, Is Halfe, Or Altogether, Innocent.