A Broken Altar, Lord, Thy Servant Rears,

Grief Melts Away Like Snow In May, As If There Were No Such Cold Thing.

Shewa Good Man His Errour And He Turnes It To A Vertue, But An Ill, It Doubles His Fault.

Throw Away Thy Rod, Throw Away Thy Wrath; O My God, Take The Gentle Path.

Play Not For Gain, But Sport. Who Plays For More Than He Can Lose With Pleasure, Stakes His Heart; Perhaps His Wife's Too, And Whom She Hath Bore.

One Mouth Doth Nothing Without Another.