Even Such Is Man, Whose Glory Lendshis

The Worldly Wisdom Of The Foolish Man Is Like A Sieve, That Does Alone Retain The Grosser Substance Of The Worthless Bran: But Thou, My Soul, Let Thy Brave Thoughts Disdain So Coarse A Purchase: O Be Thou A Fan To Purge The Chaff, And Keep The Winnow'd Grain: Make Clean Thy Thoughts, And Dress Thy Mixt Desires: Thou Art Heav'n's Tasker, And Thy God Requires The Purest Of Thy Flow'r, As Well As Of Thy Fires.

What Well-advised Ear Regards What Earth Can Say? Thy Words Are Gold, But Thy Rewards Are Painted Clay.

Let The Words Of A Virgin, Though In A Good Cause, And To As Good Purpose, Be Neither Violent, Many, Nor First, Nor Last; It Is Less Shame For A Virgin To Be Lost In A Blushing Silence Than To Be Found In A Bold Eloquence.

Even As The Needle That Directs The Hour, (touched With The Loadstone) By The Secret Power Of Hidden Nature, Points Upon The Pole; Even So The Wavering Powers Of My Soul, Touch'd By The Virtue Of Thy Spirit, Flee From What Is Earth, And Point Alone To Thee.

The Suburbs Of Folly Is Vain Mirth, And Profuseness Of Laughter Is The City Of Fools.