Praise

To write a verse or two is all the praise             That I can raise;       Mend my estate in any wayes,             Thou shalt have more. I go to church; help me to wings, and I             Will thither flie;       Or, if I mount unto the skie,             I will do more. Man is all weaknesse: there is no such thing             As Prince or King:       His arm is short; yet with a sling             He may do more. A herb destilled, and drunk, may dwell next doore,             On the same floore,       To a brave soul: Exalt the poore,             They can do more. O, raise me then! poore bees, that work all day,             Sting my delay,       Who have a work, as well as they,             And much, much more.