The Readiness Of Doing Doth Expresse No

Roses At First Were White, Till Thy Co'd Not Agree, Whether My Sapho's Breast, Or They More White Sho'd Be.

Lord, 'tis Thy Plenty-dropping Hand That Soils My Land, And Giv'st Me For My Bushel Sowne Twice Ten For One. All This, And Better, Thou Dost Send Me, To This End, That I Should Render, For My Part, A Thankful Heart.

The May-pole Is Up, Now Give Me The Cup; I'll Drink To The Garlands Around It; But First Unto Those Whose Hands Did Compose The Glory Of Flowers That Crown'd It.

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

Thus Times Do Shift, Each Thing His Turn Does Hold; New Things Succeed, As Former Things Grow Old.