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But shall my soul no wealth possess, No outward riches have? Shall hands and eyes alone express Thy bounty? Which the grave Shall strait devour. Shall I become Within myself a living tomb Of useless wonders? Shall the fair and brave And great endowments of my soul lie waste, Which ought to be a fountain, and a womb Of praises unto Thee? Shall there no outward objects be, For these to see and taste? Not so, my God, for outward joys and pleasures Are even the things for which my limbs are treasures.