When Once Our Grace We Have Forgot,

Yet Nor The Lays Of Birds Nor The Sweet Smell Of Different Flowers In Odour And In Hue Could Make Me Any Summer's Story Tell, Or From Their Proud Lap Pluck Them Where They Grew; Nor Did I Wonder At The Lily's White, Nor Praise The Deep Vermilion In The Rose; They Were But Sweet, But Figures Of Delight, Drawn After You, You Pattern Of All Those.

Tis Often Seen Adoption Strives With Nature; And Choice Breeds A Native Slip To Us From Foreign Lands.

What A Pretty Thing Man Is When He Goes In His Doublet And Hose And Leaves Off His Wit!

Hot And Hasty, Like A Scotch Jig.

Now My Charms Are All O'erthrown, And What Strength I Have's Mine Own, Which Is Most Faint: Now, 'tis True, Or Sent To Naples. Let Me Not, Since I Have My Dukedom Got And Pardon 'd The Deceiver, Dwell In This Bare Island By Your Spell; I Must Be Here Confined By You, But Release Me From My Bands With The Help Of Your Good Hands: Gentle Breath Of Yours My Sails Must Fill, Or Else My Project Fails, Which Was To Please: Now I Want Spirits To Enforce, Art To Enchant, And My Ending Is Despair, Unless I Be Relieved By Prayer, Which Pierces So, That It Assaults Mercy Itself, And Frees All Faults. As You From Crimes Would Pardon'd Be, Let Your Indulgence Set Me Free.