Praise They That Will Times Past, I

The Body Is The Soul's Poor House Or Home, Whose Ribs The Laths Are And Whose Flesh The Loam.

A Careless Shoe String, In Whose Tie I See A Wilde Civility.

Those Saints, Which God Loves Best, The Devil Tempts Not Least.

I Sing Of Brooks, Of Blossoms, Birds, And Bowers: Of April, May, Or June, And July Flowers. I Sing Of Maypoles, Hock-carts, Wassails, Wakes, Of Bridegrooms, Brides, And Of The Bridal Cakes.

Oft Have I Heard Both Youths And Virgins Say, Birds Chuse Their Mates And Couple Too This Day: But By Their Flight I Never Can Devine When I Shall Couple With My Valentine.