Love, Which Teacheth Me That Thou And

You Draw Me, You Hard-hearted Adamant; But Yet You Draw Not Iron, For My Heart Is True As Steel: Leave You Your Power To Draw, And I Shall Have No Power To Follow You.

And Flights Of Angels Sing Thee To Thy Rest!

Grief Fills The Room Up Of My Absent Child, Lies In His Bed, Walks Up And Down With Me, Puts On His Pretty Look, Repeats His Words, Remembers Me Of His Gracious Parts, Stuffs Out His Vacant Garments With His Form

There Is No Such Sport As Sport By Sport O'erthrown.

The Bird That Hath Been Limed In A Bush, With Trembling Wings Misdoubteth Every Bush.