When A Friend Askes, There Is No

God's Breath In Man Returning To His Birth, The Soul In Paraphrase, Heart In Pilgrimage.

I Envy No Man's Nightingale Or Spring; Nor Let Them Punish Me With Loss Of Rhyme, Who Plainly Say, My God, My King.

He That Needs Five Thousand Pound To Live, Is Full As Poor As He That Needs But Five.

To A Greedy Eating Horse A Short Halter.

Corn Is Cleaned With Wind, And The Soul With Chastening