Outdid The Meat, Outdid The Frolic Wine.

My Soul I'll Pour Into Thee.

Lord, 'tis Thy Plenty-dropping Hand That Soils My Land, And Giv'st Me For My Bushel Sowne Twice Ten For One. All This, And Better, Thou Dost Send Me, To This End, That I Should Render, For My Part, A Thankful Heart.

Who Covets More Is Evermore A Slave.

Outdid The Meat, Outdid The Frolic Wine.

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.