It Is Part Of A Poor Spirit

Feare, The Bedle Of The Law.

Church Bells Beyond The Stars Heard, The Soul's Blood, The Land Of Spices; Something Understood.

Rise, Heart; Thy Lord Is Risen. Sing His Praise Without Delays, Who Takes Thee By The Hand, That Thou Likewise With Him Mayst Rise: That, As His Death Calcined Thee To Dust, His Life May Make Thee Gold, And, Much More, Just.

Every One Is Witty For His Owne Purpose.

Flies Are Busiest About Leane Horses.