Epilogue
Now as the Husbandman, whose Costs and Pain,
Whose Hopes and Helps lie buried in his Grain,
Waiting a happy Spring to ripen full
His long'd-for Harvest, to the Reapers pull;
Stand we expecting, having sown our Ground
With so much charge, (the fruitfulness not found)
The Harvest of our Labours: For we know
You are our Spring; and when you smile, we grow.
Nor Charge nor Pain, shall bind us from your Pleasures,
So you but lend your hands to fill our Measures.
FINIS.