As the husband is the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, As the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

Too much wit makes the world rotten.

That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.

Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.

I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let they voice, Rise like a fountain for me night and day.