O Lord, Never Suffer Us To Think

But Think That We Are But Turned Aside To Sleep.

Lust-bred Diseases Rot Thee.

Affliction Is A Treasure, And Scarce Any Man Hath Enough Of It. No Man Hath Affliction Enough That Is Not Matured And Ripened By It And Made Fit For God.

As Virtuous Men Pass Mildly Away, And Whisper To Their Souls To Go, Whilst Some Of Their Sad Friends Do Say, The Breath Goes Now, And Some Say No.

I Throw Myself Down In My Chamber, And I Call And Invite God And His Angels Thither.