In vain our labours are, whatsoe'er they be, unless God gives the Benediction.

Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, for a benison to fall on our meat, and on us all. Amen.

Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.

T is the will that makes the action good or ill.

I do love I know not what; Sometimes this, and sometimes that.

Here a pretty Baby lies Sung asleep with Lullabies: Pray be silent, and not stirre The easie earth that covers her.

Roses at first were white, Till thy co'd not agree, Whether my Sapho's breast, Or they more white sho'd be.