Hast Thou Attempted Greatnesse? Then Go On;

Hell Is No Other But A Soundlesse Pit, Where No One Beame Of Comfort Peeps In It.

Show Me Thy Feet, Show Me Thy Legs, Thy Thighs Show Me Those Fleshy Principalities; Show Me That Hill Where Smiling Love Doth Sit, Having A Living Fountain Under It; Show Me Thy Waist, Then Let Me There Withal, By The Ascension Of Thy Lawn, See All.

Give Me A Kiss, And To That Kiss A Score; Then To That Twenty, Add A Hundred More: A Thousand To That Hundred: So Kiss On, To Make That Thousand Up A Million. Treble That Million, And When That Is Done, Let's Kiss Afresh, As When We First Begun.

I Sing Of Brooks, Of Blossoms, Birds, And Bowers: Of April, May, Or June, And July Flowers. I Sing Of Maypoles, Hock-carts, Wassails, Wakes, Of Bridegrooms, Brides, And Of The Bridal Cakes.

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!