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'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear; Heaven were not Heaven, if we knew what it were.

Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight.

A health to the nut-brown lass, With the hazel eyes: let it pass. . . . . As much to the lively grey 'Tis as good i' th' night as day: . . . . She's a savour to the glass, And excuse to make it pass.