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