With Golden Censers, And With Incense, Here Before Thy Virgin-Altar I Appear, To Pay Thee That I Owe, Since What I See In, Or Without, All, All Belongs To Thee. Where Shall I Now Begin To Make, For One Least Loan Of Thine, Half Restitution? Alas! I Cannot Pay A Jot; Therefore I'll Kiss The Tally, And Confess The Score. Ten Thousand Talents Lent Me, Thou Dost Write; 'Tis True, My God, But I Can't Pay One Mite.