Humble We Must Be, If To Heaven

The First Act's Doubtful, But We Say, It Is The Last Commends The Play.

Cherry-ripe, Ripe, Ripe, I Cry, Full And Fair Ones; Come And Buy. If So Be You Ask Me Where They Do Grow, I Answer: There, Where My Julia's Lips Do Smile; There's The Land, Or Cherry-isle, Whose Plantations Fully Show All The Year Where Cherries Grow.

A Careless Shoe String, In Whose Tie I See A Wilde Civility.

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!

Temptations Hurt Not, Though They Have Accesse; Satan O'ercomes None But By Willingnesse.