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Thou art too bountiful, I vow,
Thy Love is too abounding now.
Lord sanctify this Cordial Juice,
And make it wholsome for our use.
Well! 'tis a comfortable Creature,
In truth I think I ne'er drank better,
I can but thank ye for your Love,
Tis now, I doubt, high time to move.

Nay, Sir, I hope you'll stay and dine,
Besides, here's almost half the Wine :
Pray, Sir, accept before you go,
Of t’other Glass, and don't say no.
And if you're not engag‘d elsewhere,
You're welcome to our homely fare.

Thou art so kind, I needs inust say,
I scarce know how to go or stay.
What Dinner haft thou, friendly Crea-
Alas! I'ın but a pidling Eater: frure ?

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Wife. I must confess we have not dress d What's worthy of so good a Guest; Yer 'tis a Dish that we inay say Is suited to the present Day: 'Tis a Calfs Head, to tell you truth, I wish such Fare may


your Tooth.

Preacher. Bless me, the best and only Dish, Upon this Day, that I could with. No Food besides could so delight My Eyes, and eke my Apperire. Good pious Saints, that you should join Your Hearts so mutually with mine. Well, give me now the other Glass, I see that you abound in Grace, The Lord of Mercy and of Pow'r Hath Blessings for such Saints in store, I cannot bid ye now farewel, Thy Invitarion must prevail.

Methinks Methinks from Heav'n I hear a Voice, That bids me tarry and rejoice.


None can more truly welcome be;
Therefore I hope, Sir, you'll be free.
This is a Day of Joy and Mirth
Ainong the Saints that dwell on Earth.
This and the Fifth Day of November
We're always careful to remember.
Both which deserve the utmost rev'rence
For our remarkable Deliverance.

Preacher. 'Tis very true, we ought to praise The Lord upon these blessed Days, And typify the Fall of him Thar caus'd the Land in Blood to swim. So good a Dish, on such a Day! What Christian can refuse to stay. But tho' I tarry here to dine, Pray do not send for any Wine.


Husband. A little, Sir,---Wife send the Maid For two of Palm and two of Red : This Day we always drink, you know, To th‘Pious Hand that gave the Blow.

Preacher, The Lord direct thee! Pritheę do What thy own Mind inclines thee to, But I must crave thy leave to light One Pipe to wher my Appetite. When that is done we'll shut the Door, And praise the Ld for half an Hour.


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William Prynne,

HOU perpetual Scribe,

Pharisee and Hypocritę, born to the destruction

of Paper, and most unchriftian effufion of Ink ; thou Egyptian Taskmaster of the Press, and unmerci.



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