Let My Muse Fail Of

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

Some Asked Me Where The Rubies Grew, And Nothing I Did Say; But With My Finger Pointed To The Lips Of Julia.

Our Present Tears Here, Not Our Present Laughter Are But The Handsells Of Our Joys Hereafter.

Whatever Comes, Let's Be Content Withal: Among God's Blessings There Is No One Small.

God Doth Not Promise Here To Man That Hewill Free Him Quickly From His Misery;but In His Own Time, And When He Thinks Fit,then He Will Give A Happy End To It.