Tis Not The Food, But The Content,

He Who Has Suffered Shipwreck, Fears To Sail Upon The Seas, Though With A Gentle Gale.

When Words We Want, Love Teacheth To Indite; And What We Blush To Speak, She Bids Us Write.

When The Tempter Me Pursueth With The Sins Of All My Youth, And Half Damns Me With Untruth, Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me!

Show Me Thy Feet, Show Me Thy Legs, Thy Thighs Show Me Those Fleshy Principalities; Show Me That Hill Where Smiling Love Doth Sit, Having A Living Fountain Under It; Show Me Thy Waist, Then Let Me There Withal, By The Ascension Of Thy Lawn, See All.

Hell Is No Other But A Soundlesse Pit, Where No One Beame Of Comfort Peeps In It.