TO write a verse or two is all the praise,
                                          That I can raise:
            Mend my estate in any wayes,
                                          Thou shalt have more.

I go to Church; help me to wings, and I
                                          Will thither flie;
            Or, if I mount unto the skie,
                                          I will do more.

Man is all weaknesse; 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 doore,
                                          On the same floore,
            To a brave soul: exalt the poore,
                                          They can do more.

O raise me then! Poore bees, that work all day,
                                          Sting my delay,
            Who have a work, as well as they,
                                          And much, much more.