T Is The Will That Makes The

In Ways To Greatness Think On This, That Slippery All Ambition Is

Let My Muse Fail Of Thy Former Helps, And Only Use Her Inadulterate Strength. What's Done By Me Hereafter Shall Smell Of The Lamp, Not Thee.

Seldom Comes Glory Till A Man Be Dead.

Lord, 'tis Thy Plenty-dropping Hand That Soils My Land, And Giv'st Me For My Bushel Sowne Twice Ten For One. All This, And Better, Thou Dost Send Me, To This End, That I Should Render, For My Part, A Thankful Heart.

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.