Fair Daffodils, We Weep To

When The Artless Doctor Sees No One Hope, But Of His Fees, And His Skill Runs On The Lees; Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me! When His Potion And His Pill, Has, Or None, Or Little Skill, Meet For Nothing, But To Kill; Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me!

Things Are Evermore Sincere; / Candor Here, And Lustre There / Delighting.

Oft Have I Heard Both Youths And Virgins Say, Birds Chuse Their Mates And Couple Too This Day: But By Their Flight I Never Can Devine When I Shall Couple With My Valentine.

T Is The Will That Makes The Action Good Or Ill.

God Doth Not Promise Here To Man That Hewill Free Him Quickly From His Misery;but In His Own Time, And When He Thinks Fit,then He Will Give A Happy End To It.