I hold he loves me best that calls me Tom

Her that ruled the rost in the kitchen.

Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day! With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow:

With this kiss I wed thee once again.

The world’s a theatre, the earth a stage Which God and Nature do with actors fill.

Seven cities warred for Homer being dead, Who living had no roofe to shrowd his head.

Song like a rose should be; Each rhyme a petal sweet; For fragrance, melody, That when her lips repeat The words, her heart may know What secret makes them so:—