Nature's Tears Are Reason's Merriment.

Tis A Blushing Shame-faced Spirit That Mutinies In A Man's Bosom. It Fills A Man Full Of Obstacles. It Made Me Once Restore A Purse Of Gold That (by Chance) I Found. It Beggars Any Man That Keeps It.

And Blind Oblivion Swallowed Cities Up.

There's Not The Smallest Orb Which Thou Behold'st But In His Motion Like An Angel Sings.

But Now Behold, In The Quick Forge And Working-house Of Thought, How London Doth Pour Out Her Citizens!

Prepare For Mirth, For Mirth Becomes A Feast.