To So Perverse A Sex All Grace

Content With Poverty, My Soul I Arm; And Virtue, Though In Rags, Will Keep Me Warm.

God Never Made His Work For Man To Mend.

While I Am Compassed Round With Mirth, My Soul Lies Hid In Shades Of Grief, Whence, Like The Bird Of Night, With Half-shut Eyes, She Peeps, And Sickens At The Sight Of Day.

He Made All Countries Where He Came His Own.

Presence Of Mind And Courage In Distress, Are More Than Arrives To Procure Success?