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The worts, the purslain, and the mess

Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;

And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,

To be more sweet.

‘Tis Thou that crown’st my glittering hearth

With guiltless mirth;

And giv’st me wassail-bowls to drink,

Spic’d to the brink.

Lord, ‘tis Thy plenty-dropping hand

That soils my land;

And giv’st me, for my bushel sown,

Twice ten for one;

Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay

Story Continues →