Not to understand a treasure's worth till time has stole away the slighted good, is cause of half the poverty we feel, and makes the world the wilderness it is.
We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!
The parson knows enough who knows a Duke.
He that runs may read.
Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head