You Say To Me-wards Your

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.

The Body Is The Soul's Poor House Or Home, Whose Ribs The Laths Are And Whose Flesh The Loam.

Fair Daffodils, We Weep To See You Haste Away So Soon: As Yet The Early-rising Sun Has Not Attained His Noon.

Give Me A Kiss, And To That Kiss A Score: Then To That Twenty, Add A Hundred More.

Humble We Must Be, If To Heaven We Go; High Is The Roof There, But The Gate Is Low.