Hee That Lies Long A Bed, His

It's No Sure Rule To Fish With A Cros-bow.

For All May Have, If They Dare To Try, A Glorious Life, Or Grave.

Though You Rise Early, Yet The Day Comes At His Time, And Not Till Then.

A Snow Yeare, A Rich Yeare.

Rise, Heart; Thy Lord Is Risen. Sing His Praise Without Delays, Who Takes Thee By The Hand, That Thou Likewise With Him Mayst Rise: That, As His Death Calcined Thee To Dust, His Life May Make Thee Gold, And, Much More, Just.