| The Princely heart, that freely spends |
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| Two spirits dreadfully enter |
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| Enter the Nymphs and Satyrs singing - |
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| Sung by Plot-thrift and Cozen |
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| Old Tithon must forsake his dear |
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| Come let us be frolic and call for our tipple |
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| My love can sing no other song |
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| Submit, bunch of grapes |
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| On May-day, when the lark began to rise |
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| Big rats! Big rats! |
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And I mus say
That you did a fine
Job writting your poem