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Rh We up with the sun to delve and moil, We give our eyes with the midnight oil, Till the sight burns dim, till the wick's no more, To give our masters a coach-and-four, To spatter us with the mire. If nothing to lose, we have all to win. To a heart's despair sin scarce seems sin— When hope dies out, maybe crime steals in, And patience may sometime grow sick and tire. The wearied bee may die on the wing, Or—God has given to each his sting.’

Sweet Content, at death's black gates, Called, ‘Wilt thou take me in?’ ‘Enter into the home of peace, Close my gates on good and sin. Shut on the poor man's rags my door. Shut on the rich man's coach-and-four. Nothing had man when life gave him breath. Nothing he takes past the gates of death Of the world's unequal paying. Save only the joys he fought self to resign, Only the sorrows he did not repine. The sins that he stooped for, or passed, and Divine Is the justice that judges the weighing. What better reward for a tired life spent, Than thee for his bride. Content?’