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Poem	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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