And makes us, also, wretched after Death.

Let mee, oh God! my labour so employ,

That, I, a competencie may enjoy.

I aske no more, than may Lifes want supply,

And, leave their due to others, when I die.

If this thou grant, (which nothing doubt I can)

None ever liv'd, or dy'd a richer man.


When Hopes, quite frustrate were become,
The Wither'd-branch did freshly bloome.