Love Is A Circle That Doth Restless

Those Saints, Which God Loves Best, The Devil Tempts Not Least.

None Pities Him That Is In The Snare, Who Warned Before, Would Not Beware.

In Prayer The Lips Ne'er Act The Winning Part, Without The Sweet Concurrence Of The Heart.

Some Asked Me Where The Rubies Grew, And Nothing I Did Say; But With My Finger Pointed To The Lips Of Julia.

Lord, 'tis Thy Plenty-dropping Hand That Soils My Land, And Giv'st Me For My Bushel Sowne Twice Ten For One. All This, And Better, Thou Dost Send Me, To This End, That I Should Render, For My Part, A Thankful Heart.