In Prayer The Lips Ne'er

Seldom Comes Glory Till A Man Be Dead.

In Vain Our Labours Are, Whatsoe'er They Be, Unless God Gives The Benediction.

When A Daffadill I See, Hanging Down His Head Towards Me, Guess I May, What I Must Be: First, I Shall Decline My Head; Secondly, I Shall Be Dead: Lastly, Safely Buryed.

Praise They That Will Times Past, I Joy To See My Selfe Now Live: This Age Best Pleaseth Mee.

The Person Lives Twice Who Lives The First Life Well