O Loss Of Sight, Of Thee I

Sweet Bird, That Shun The Noise Of Folly, Most Musical, Most Melancholy!

But Now My Task Is Smoothly Done, I Can Fly, Or I Can Run Quickly To The Green Earth's End, Where The Bow'd Welkin Slow Doth Bend, And From Thence Can Soar As Soon To The Corners Of The Moon.

In Argument With Men A Woman Ever Goes By The Worse, Whatever Be Her Cause.

These Two Imparadised In One Another's Arms, The Happier Eden, Shall Enjoy Their Fill Of Bliss On Bliss.

But See! Thevirgin Blessed Hath Laid Her Babe To Rest. Time Is Our Tedious Song Should Here Have Ending.