Sundays observe; think when the bells do chime, 'T is angels' music.
Who would have thought my shrivel'd heart could have recovered greenness?
Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws, makes that and the action fine.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, a box where sweets compacted lie.
Night is the mother of counsels.
Not only ought fortune to be pictured on a wheel, but every thing else in this world.