Gratitude

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love All pray in their distress; And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness.

For he counteracts the Devil, who is Death, by brisking about the life.

For I bless God in the libraries of the learned and for all the booksellers in the world.

The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening paradise.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav’n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis’ry all he had, a tear, He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.

Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend.

Do all the good you can, By all the means you can, In all the ways you can, In all the places you can, At all the times you can, To all the people you can, As long as ever you can.

Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend. 6

Blesses his stars and thinks it luxury.

And feel that I am happier than I know.

So saying, with dispatchful looks in haste She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent.

My latest found, Heaven’s last, best gift, my ever new delight!

I got me flowers to strew Thy way, I got me boughs off many a tree: But Thou wast up by break of day, And brought’st Thy sweets along with Thee.

He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one; Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that lov’d him not; But, to those men that sought him sweet as summer.

’Tis better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perk’d up in a glist’ring grief And wear a golden sorrow.

For several virtues Have I lik’d several women.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restor’d and sorrows end.

For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

My man of men.

Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw incense.

Mine enemy’s dog, Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire.

Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend Under thy own life’s key: be check’d for silence, But never tax’d for speech.

I hate ingratitude more in a man Than lying, vainness, babbling drunkenness, Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption Inhabits our frail blood.

Out of my lean and low ability I’ll lend you something.