My Soul I'll Pour Into Thee.

A Sweet Disorder In The Dress Kindles In Clothes A Wantonness A Lawn About The Shoulders Thrown Into A Fine Distraction.

Fight Thou With Shafts Of Silver, And O'ercome When No Force Else Can Get The Masterdom

Who With A Little Cannot Be Content, Endures An Everlasting Punishment.

A Winning Wave, (deserving Note.) In The Tempestuous Petticote, A Careless Shoe-string, In Whose Tye I See A Wilde Civility,-- Doe More Bewitch Me Than When Art Is Too Precise In Every Part.

But Here's The Sunset Of A Tedious Day, These Two Asleep Are; I'll But Be Undrest, And So To Bed. Pray Wish Us All Good Rest.