Outdid The Meat, Outdid The

Welcome, Maids Of Honor, You Doe Bring In The Spring, And Wait Upon Her.

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!

When Words We Want, Love Teacheth To Indite; And What We Blush To Speak, She Bids Us Write.

The Glorious Lamp Of Heaven, The Sun.

Next, When I Cast Mine Eyes And See That Brave Vibration Each Way Free, O How That Glittering Taketh Me!