Nothing In His Life Became Him Like

Angels Are Bright Still, Though The Brightest Fell. Though All Things Foul Would Wear The Brows Of Grace, Yet Grace Must Still Look So.

O Most Delicate Fiend! Who Is't Can Read A Woman? Is There More?

My Prophecy Is But Half His Journey Yet, For Yonder Walls, That Pertly Front Your Town, Yon Towers, Whose Wanton Tops Do Buss The Clouds, Must Kiss Their Own Feet.

Thou Art An Elm, My Husband, I A Vine.

I Have Unclasp'd To Thee The Book Even Of My Secret Soul.