To Sing Of Wars, Of

Sweet Words Are Like Honey, A Little May Refresh, But Too Much Gluts The Stomach.

My Age I Will Not Once Lament, / But Sing, My Time So Near Is Spent.

There Is No Object That We See; No Action That We Do; No Good That We Enjoy; No Evil That We Feel, Or Fear, But We May Make Some Spiritual Advantage Of All: And He That Makes Such Improvement Is Wise, As Well As Pious.

If What I Do Prove Well, It Won't Advance. They'll Say It's Stolen, Or Else It Was By Chance.

I Prize Thy Love More Than Whole Mines Of Gold Or All The Riches That The East Doth Hold.