Praise (I)

 To write a verse or two is all the praise
That I can raise: 
Mend my estate in any ways, 
Thou shalt have more.


I go to Church; help me to wings, and I
Will thither fly; 
Or, if I mount unto the sky, 
I will do more.


Man is all weakness; there is no such thing
As Prince or King: 
His arm is short; yet with a sling
He may do more.


An herb distill'd, and drunk, may dwell next door, 
On the same floor, 
To a brave soul: Exalt the poor, 
They can do more.


O raise me then! poor bees, that work all day, 
Sting my delay, 
Who have a work, as well as they, 
And much, much more.

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