Well I Sup And Well I Dine,

In Sober Mornings Do Not Thou Rehearse The Holy Incantation Of A Verse

Feed Him Ye Must, Whose Food Fills You. And That This Pleasure Is Like Raine, Not Sent Ye For To Drowne Your Paine, But For To Make It Spring Againe.

Praise They That Will Times Past, I Joy To See My Selfe Now Live: This Age Best Pleaseth Mee.

Attempt The End And Never Stand To Doubt; Nothing's So Hard, But Search Will Find It Out.

Fair Daffodils, We Weep To See You Haste Away So Soon: As Yet The Early-rising Sun Has Not Attained His Noon.