There Is An Old Poor Man,. .

No Profit Grows Where No Pleasure Is Taken.

Thou Canst Not Speak Of What Thou Dost Not Feel.

Thou Art A Soul In Bliss; But I Am Bound Upon A Wheel Of Fire; That Mine Own Tears Do Scald Like Molten Lead.

This Fellow Pecks Up Wit, As Pigeons Peas; And Utters It Again When God Doth Please: He Is Wit's Pedler; And Retails His Wares.

My Love Is Thine To Teach; Teach It But How, And Thou Shalt See How Apt It Is To Learn. Any Hard Lesson That May Do Thee Good.