I
A delicate and tender thought
The quintessence is found of all He wrought;
It is the fruit of all his works,
Which we conceive,
Bring forth, and give,
Yea and in which the greater value lurks.
It is the fine and curious flower
Which we return and offer every hour;
So tender is our Paradise
That in a trice
It withers strait and fades away
If we but cease its beauty to display.