But Ne'er The Rose Without The Thorn.

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.

If Little Labour, Little Are Our Gains: Man's Fortunes Are According To His Pains.

But Here's The Sunset Of A Tedious Day, These Two Asleep Are; I'll But Be Undrest, And So To Bed. Pray Wish Us All Good Rest.

My Soul I'll Pour Into Thee.

And As This Round (ring) Is Nowhere Found To Flaw, Or Else To Sever. So Let Our Love As Endless Prove And Pure As Gold Forever.