Things Are Evermore Sincere; /

Here A Little Child I Stand, Heaving Up My Either Hand; Cold As Paddocks Though They Be, Here I Lift Them Up To Thee, For A Benison To Fall On Our Meat, And On Us All. Amen.

Tears Are The Noble Language Of The Eye.

The First Act's Doubtful, But We Say, It Is The Last Commends The Play.

Roses At First Were White, Till Thy Co'd Not Agree, Whether My Sapho's Breast, Or They More White Sho'd Be.

In Prayer The Lips Ne'er Act The Winning Part, Without The Sweet Concurrence Of The Heart.