No, Not Jove Himselfe, At One Time,

When The Artless Doctor Sees No One Hope, But Of His Fees, And His Skill Runs On The Lees; Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me! When His Potion And His Pill, Has, Or None, Or Little Skill, Meet For Nothing, But To Kill; Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me!

Fight Thou With Shafts Of Silver, And O'ercome When No Force Else Can Get The Masterdom

Welcome, Maids Of Honor, You Doe Bring In The Spring, And Wait Upon Her.

A Spark Neglected Makes A Mighty Fire.

Wealth Cannot Make A Life, But Love.