My soul I'll pour into thee.

Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, for a benison to fall on our meat, and on us all. Amen.

Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.

Tears are the noble language of the eye.

Roses at first were white, Till thy co'd not agree, Whether my Sapho's breast, Or they more white sho'd be.

Men are suspicious; prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.

Give, if thou can, an alms; if not, a sweet and gentle word.