O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As

My Hands Are Of Your Color, But I Shame To Wear A Heart So White.

For The Poor Wren (the Most Diminutive Of Birds) Will Fight, Her Young Ones In Her Nest, Against The Owl.

One Whom The Music Of His Own Vain Tongue Doth Ravish Like Enchanting Harmony.

When Once Our Grace We Have Forgot, Nothing Goes Right.

I Never See Thy Face But I Think Upon Hell-fire.