Those Saints, Which God Loves Best, The

A Winning Wave, (deserving Note.) In The Tempestuous Petticote, A Careless Shoe-string, In Whose Tye I See A Wilde Civility,-- Doe More Bewitch Me Than When Art Is Too Precise In Every Part.

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.

Those Saints, Which God Loves Best, The Devil Tempts Not Least.

Our Present Tears Here, Not Our Present Laughter Are But The Handsells Of Our Joys Hereafter.

Bid Me To Live, And I Will Livethy Protestant To Be,or Bid Me Love, And I Will Givea Loving Heart To Thee.