If Fortune the ensuing Year,
Convinces us she is not blind,
By proving to your merit kind.
Recitativo.
In vain above Three Hundred Days have pass’d
Between this joyful Twelfth Day and the last,
No Scene like this has chear’d your Hearts and Eyes,
Where shall we find such bliss beneath the Skies?
All that Sir William and my Lady ask,
Is, that when all have well perform’d their Task,