Good God, The Souls Of All My

And Some That Smile Have In Their Hearts, I Fear, Millions Of Mischiefs.

He's Loved Of The Distracted Multitude, Who Like Not In Their Judgement, But Their Eyes.

She Speaks Poniards, And Every Word Stabs.

Thus Sometimes Hath The Brightest Day A Cloud; And After Summer Evermore Succeeds Barren Winter, With His Wrathful Nipping Cold: So Cares And Joys Abound, As Seasons Fleet.

A Wretched Soul, Bruised With Adversity, We Bid Be Quiet When We Hear It Cry; But Were We Burdened With Light Weight Of Pain, As Much Or More We Should Ourselves Complain.