I Was Adored Once Too.

Since Brass, Nor Stone, Nor Earth, Nor Boundless Sea, But Bad Mortality O'ersways Their Power, How With This Rage Shall Beauty Hold A Plea, Whose Action Is No Stronger Than A Flower?

I Must Be Gone And Live, Or Stay And Die.

So Holy And So Perfect Is My Love, And I In Such A Poverty Of Grace, That I Shall Think It A Most Plenteous Crop To Glean The Broken Ears After The Man That The Main Harvest Reaps.

At Christmas, I No More Desire A Rose.

This Day's Black Fate On More Days Doth Depend; This But Begins The Woe, Others Must End.