Or If Virtue Feeble Were, Heav'n Itself

Hard Are The Ways Of Truth, And Rough To Walk.

O Nightingale, That On Yon Bloomy Spray Warblest At Eve, When All The Woods Are Still; Thou With Fresh Hope The Lover's Heart Dost Fill While The Jolly Hours Lead On Propitious May.

Herbs, And Other Country Messes, Which The Neat-handed Phillis Dresses.

Who Can Enjoy Alone? Or All Enjoying What Contentment Find?

Anon Out Of The Earth A Fabric Huge Rose, Like An Exhalation.