And As This Round (ring) Is Nowhere

We Credit Most Our Sight; One Eye Doth Please Our Trust Farre More Than Ten Eare-witnesses.

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!

That Age Is Best Which Is The First When Youth And Blood Are Warmer.

In Sober Mornings Do Not Thou Rehearse The Holy Incantation Of A Verse

So When Or You Or I Are Made A Fable, Song, Or Fleeting Shade; All Love, All Liking, All Delight Lies Drowned With Us In Endless Night. Then While Time Serves, And We Are But Decaying; Come, My Corinna, Come, Let's Go A Maying.