Praise (I)
To write a verse or two is all the praise
That I can raise:
Mend my estate in any ways,
Thou shalt have more.
I go to Church; help me to wings, and I
Will thither fly;
Or, if I mount unto the sky,
I will do more.
Man is all weakness; there is no such thing
As Prince or King:
His arm is short; yet with a sling
He may do more.
An herb distill’d, and drunk, may dwell next door,
On the same floor,
To a brave soul: Exalt the poor,
They can do more.
O raise me then! poor bees, that work all day,
Sting my delay,
Who have a work, as well as they,
And much, much more.
