Can One Desire Too Much Of A

Be Just, And Fear Not. Let All The Ends Thou Aim'st At Be Thy Country's, Thy God's And Truth's.

The Gloomy Shade Of Death.

Sweetest Nut Hath Sourest Rind.

Constant You Are, But Yet A Woman; And For Secrecy, No Lady Closer; For I Well Believe Thou Wilt Not Utter What Thou Dost Not Know.

And What Art Thou, Thou Idol Ceremony? What Kind Of God Art Thou, That Suffer'st More Of Mortal Griefs Than Do Thy Worshippers?