I'll Make Death Love Me; For I

To Fear The Foe, Since Fear Oppresseth Strength, Gives In Your Weakness Strength Unto Your Foe.

And Flights Of Angels Sing Thee To Thy Rest!

A Maiden Hath No Tongue--but Thought.

Pain Pays The Income Of Each Precious Thing.

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.