O Who Would Trust This

It Is No Happiness To Live Long, Nor Unhappiness To Die Soon; Happy Is He That Hath Lived Long Enough To Die Well.

O Who Would Trust This World, Or Prize What's In It, That Gives And Takes, And Chops And Changes, Ev'ry Minute?

For Trash And Toys, And Grief-engend'ring Joys, What Torment Seems Too Sharp For Flesh And Blood; What Bitter Pills, Compos'd Of Real Ills, Men Swallow Down To Purchase One False Good!

Think Not Thy Love To God Merits God's Love To Thee; His Acceptance Of Thy Duty Crowns His Own Gifts In Thee; Man's Love To God Is Nothing But A Faint Reflection Of God's Love To Man.

Lust Is A Sharp Spur To Vice, Which Always Putteth The Affections Into A False Gallop.