Praise

To write a verse or two is all the praise That I can raise; Mend my estate in any wayes, Thou shalt have more.

I go to church; help me to wings, and I Will thither flie; Or, if I mount unto the skie, I will do more.

Man is all weaknesse: there is no such thing As Prince or King: His arm is short; yet with a sling He may do more.

A herb destilled, and drunk, may dwell next doore, On the same floore, To a brave soul: Exalt the poore, They can do more.

O, raise me then! poore bees, that work all day, Sting my delay, Who have a work, as well as they, And much, much more.