Praise They That Will Times Past, I

In Sober Mornings Do Not Thou Rehearse The Holy Incantation Of A Verse

In Prayer The Lips Ne'er Act The Winning Part, Without The Sweet Concurrence Of The Heart.

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.

Let's Live With That Small Pittance Which We Have; Who Covets More Is Evermore A Slave.

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