Hee That Lies Long A Bed, His

Good Swimmers At Length Are Drowned.

Fine Words Dresse Ill Deedes.

Thou That Hast Given So Much To Me Give Me One Thing More, A Grateful Heart: Not Thankful When It Pleaseth Me, As If Thy Blessings Had Spare Days, But Such A Heart Whose Pulse May Be Thy Praise.

Let Thy Mind Still Be Bent, Still Plotting, Where, And When, And How Thy Business May Be Done. Slackness Breeds Worms; But The Sure Traveller, Though He Alights Sometimes Still Goeth On.

When All Sinnes Grow Old, Coveteousnesse Is Young.