In Prayer The Lips Ne'er

A Spark Neglected Makes A Mighty Fire.

Feed Him Ye Must, Whose Food Fills You. And That This Pleasure Is Like Raine, Not Sent Ye For To Drowne Your Paine, But For To Make It Spring Againe.

Who With A Little Cannot Be Content, Endures An Everlasting Punishment.

That Age Is Best Which Is The First When Youth And Blood Are Warmer.

Let My Muse Fail Of Thy Former Helps, And Only Use Her Inadulterate Strength. What's Done By Me Hereafter Shall Smell Of The Lamp, Not Thee.