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Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.
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Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood:
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Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land; And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one; Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day; Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year; The while the conduits of my kine Run cream, for wine. All these, and better, Thou dost send Me, to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart...
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Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.
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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
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