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May live for ever in felicity:

And that thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love Thee for the same again;
And for thy sake, that alllike dear didst buy,
With love may one another entertain.
So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought;
Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.
Edmund Spenser.

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Jerusalem, my happy home,

When shall I come to thee?

When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall I see?

O happy harbour of the saints!

O sweet and pleasant soil!

In thee no sorrow may be found,
No grief, no care, no toil.

In thee no sickness may be seen,
Nor hurt, nor ache, nor sore;
There is no death, nor ugly dole,
But Life for evermore.



There lust and lucre cannot dwell,

There envy bears no sway;

There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,
But pleasure every way.


Thy walls are made of precious stones,
Thy bulwarks diamonds square;
Thy gates are of right orient pearl,
Exceeding rich and rare.


Thy turrets and thy pinnacles

With carbuncles do shine;

Thy very streets are paved with gold,
Surpassing clear and fine.

Thy houses are of ivory,


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We sigh, and sob, we weep and wail,
Perpetually we groan.


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Quite through the streets, with silver sound,
The flood of Life doth flow;

Upon whose banks on every side

The wood of Life doth grow.

There trees for evermore bear fruit,

And evermore do spring;

There evermore the angels sit,

And evermore do sing.

Jerusalem, my happy home,

Would God I were in thee!

Would God my woes were at an end,

Thy joys that I might see!







How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death;
Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame, or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great;

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend;





--This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

Sir Henry Wotton.



Away, let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care,
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear.

What though no grants of royal donors
With pompous titles grace our blood?
We'll shine in more substantial honours,
And to be noble we'll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke;
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.

What though from fortune's lavish bounty
No mighty treasures we possess,
We'll find within our pittance plenty,
And be content without excess.

Still shall each returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.




Through youth and age in love excelling,

We'll hand in hand together tread;

Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,

And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung;
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue.


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