I Prize Thy Love More Than Whole

Art Can Do Much, But This Maxim's Most Sure/a Weak Or Wounded Brain Admits No Cure.

If We Had Not Winter, The Spring Would Not Be So Pleasant; If We Did Not Sometimes Taste Of Adversity, Prosperity Would Not Be So Welcome.

To Sing Of Wars, Of Captains, And Of Kings/of Cities Founded, Common-wealths Begun/for My Mean Pen Are Too Superior Things.

My Love Is Such That Rivers Cannot Quench, Nor Ought But Love From Thee, Give Recompence. Thy Love Is Such I Can No Way Repay, The Heavens Reward Thee Manifold I Pray.

Some Laborers Have Hard Hands, And Old Sinners Have Brawny Consciences.