Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;

Oh give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

Thomas Moss (1740-1808): The Beggar.

'T is sweet, as year by year we lose

Friends out of sight, in faith to muse

How grows in Paradise our store.

John Keble (1792-1866): Burial of the Dead.

The wise man sayth, store is no sore.

John Heywood (Circa 1565): Proverbes. Part i. Chap. v.

I give thee all,—I can no more,

Though poor the off'ring be;

My heart and lute are all the store

That I can bring to thee.

Thomas Moore (1779-1852): My Heart and Lute.

Some have too much, yet still do crave;

I little have, and seek no more:

They are but poor, though much they have,

And I am rich with little store:

They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;

They lack, I have; they pine, I live.

Edward Dyer (Circa 1540-1607): MS. Rawl. 85, p. 17.

My name is Norval; on the Grampian hills

My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,

Whose constant cares were to increase his store,

And keep his only son, myself, at home.

John Home (1724-1808): Douglas. Act ii. Sc. 1.

Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer,

Childless with all her children, wants an heir;

To heirs unknown descends the unguarded store,

Or wanders heaven-directed to the poor.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): Moral Essays. Epistle ii. Line 147.