O Thou, The Drink Of

Tears Are The Noble Language Of Eyes, And When True Love Of Words Is Destitute. The Eye By Tears Speak, While The Tongue Is Mute.

A Little Saint Best Fits A Little Shrine, A Little Prop Best Fits A Little Vine, As My Small Cruse Best Fits My Little Wine.

In The Hour Of My Distress, When Temptations Me Oppress, And When I My Sins Confess, Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me.

Hell Is No Other But A Soundlesse Pit, Where No One Beame Of Comfort Peeps In It.

Let Wealth Come In By Comely Thrift, And Not By Any Sordid Shift; 't Is Haste Makes Waste; Extremes Have Still Their Fault. Who Gripes Too Hard The Dry And Slipp'ry Sand, Holds None At All, Or Little, In His Hand.