Give, If Thou Can, An Alms; If

In Things A Moderation Keep; Kings Ought To Shear, Not Skin, Their Sheep.

He Loves His Bonds Who, When The First Are Broke, Submits His Neck Into A Second Yoke.

Here A Little Child I Stand, Heaving Up My Either Hand; Cold As Paddocks Though They Be, Here I Lift Them Up To Thee, For A Benison To Fall On Our Meat, And On Us All. Amen.

Our Present Tears Here, Not Our Present Laughter Are But The Handsells Of Our Joys Hereafter.

Feed Him Ye Must, Whose Food Fills You. And That This Pleasure Is Like Raine, Not Sent Ye For To Drowne Your Paine, But For To Make It Spring Againe.