Some Are Born To Sweet Delight, Some

O Autumn, Laden With Fruit, And Stained With The Blood Of The Grape, Pass Not, But Sit Beneath My Shady Roof; There Thou May'st Rest, And Tune Thy Jolly Voice To My Fresh Pipe; And All The Daughters Of The Year Shall Dance! Sing Now The Lusty Song Of Fruit And Flowers.

I Am More Famed In Heaven For My Works Than I Could Well Conceive. In My Brain Are Studies & Chambers Filled With Books & Pictures Of Old, Which I Wrote And Painted In Ages Of Eternity Before My Mortal Life; And Whose Works Are The Delight & Study Of Archangels. Why, Then, Should I Be Anxious About The Riches Or Fame Of Mortality?

But If At Church They Would Give Some Ale. And A Pleasant Fire Our Souls To Regale. We'd Sing And We'd Pray All The Live Long Day, Nor Ever Once From The Church To Stray.

The Man Who Never In His Mind & Thoughts Travel'd To Heaven Is No Artist.

The Look Of Love Alarms Because 'tis Filled With Fire; But The Look Of Soft Deceit Shall Win The Lover's Hire.