My Dancing Days Are Past.

Quiet Night, That Brings Best To The Labourer, Is The Outlaw's Day, In Which He Rises Early To Do Wrong, And When His Work Is Ended Dares Not Sleep.

Nor Custom, Nor Example, Nor Cast Numbers Of Such As Do Offend, Make Less The Sin.

Cheerful Looks Make Every Dish A Feast, And It Is That Which Crowns A Welcome.

Before We End Our Pilgrimage, 'tis Fit That We Should Leave Corruption, And Foul Sin, Behind Us, But With Wash'd Feet And Hands, The Heathens Dar' Not Enter Their Profane Temples; And For Me To Hope My Passage To Eternity Can Be Made Easy, Till I Have Shook Off The Burthen Of My Sins In Free Confession, Aided With Sorrow, And Repentance For Them, Is Against Reason.

What Can Innocence Hope For, When Such As Sit Her Judges Are Corrupted!