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.