In Vain Our Labours Are,

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.

It Is The End That Crowns Us, Not The Fight.

Art Quickens Nature; Care Will Make A Face; Neglected Beauty Perisheth Apace.

Love Is Maintain'd By Wealth: When All Is Spent, Adversity Then Breeds The Discontent.

Learn This Of Me, Where'er Thy Lot Doth Fall, Short Lot, Or Not, To Be Content With All.