Tis Hard To Find God, But To

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

But Ne'er The Rose Without The Thorn.

Who With A Little Cannot Be Content, Endures An Everlasting Punishment.

In Vain Our Labours Are, Whatsoe'er They Be, Unless God Gives The Benediction.

Let My Muse Fail Of Thy Former Helps, And Only Use Her Inadulterate Strength. What's Done By Me Hereafter Shall Smell Of The Lamp, Not Thee.