T Is The Will That Makes The

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.

Then Be Not Coy, But Use Your Time; And While Ye May, Go Marry: For Having Lost But Once Your Prime, You May For Ever Tarry.

Like Will To Like, Each Creature Loves His Kind.

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.

In Ways To Greatness Think On This, That Slippery All Ambition Is