Tears.

Tears most prevail; with tears, too, thou may'st move
Rocks to relent, and coyest maids to love.

Our present tears here, not our present laughter,
Are but the handsels of our joys hereafter.

The tears of saints more sweet by far
Than all the songs of sinners are.

Tears, though they're here below the sinner's brine,
Above, they are the Angels' spiced wine.

Upon her cheeks she wept, and from those showers
Sprang up a sweet nativity of flowers.

We merit all we suffer, and by far
More stripes than God lays on the sufferer.