If To Do Were As

If There Is A Good Will, There Is Great Way.

Virtue And Genuine Graces In Themselves Speak What No Words Can Utter.

Did He So Often Lodge In Open Field, In Winter's Cold And Summer's Parching Heat, To Conquer France, His True Inheritance?

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.

The Last Taste Of Sweets Is Sweetest Last.