Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a flying: And this same flower that smiles to day, Tomorrow will be dying.

Fain would I kiss my Julia's dainty leg, Which is as white and hairless as an egg.

Give, if thou can, an alms; if not, a sweet and gentle word.

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

But ne'er the rose without the thorn.

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.

Who covets more is evermore a slave.