A Prosperous State Makes A

The Stones And Trees, Insensible To Time, / Nor Age Nor Wrinkle On Their Front Are Seen; / If Winter Come, And Greenness Then Do Fade / A Spring Returns, And They More Youthful Made; / But Man Grows Old, Lies Down, Remains Where Once He's Laid.

To Sing Of Wars, Of Captains, And Of Kings/of Cities Founded, Common-wealths Begun/for My Mean Pen Are Too Superior Things.

The World No Longer Lets Me Love, My Hope And Treasure Are Above.

What To My Saviour Shall I Givewho Freely Hath Done This For Me?i'll Serve Him Here Whilst I Shall Liveand Loue Him To Eternity

I Prize Thy Love More Than Whole Mines Of Gold Or All The Riches That The East Doth Hold.