Pray You Now, Forget And Forgive.

Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It.

Vice Repeated Is Like The Wandering Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eyes To Spread Itself.

Extremity Is The Trier Of Spirits.

So They Loved As Love In Twain Had The Essence But In One; Two Distinct, Divisions None.

Holy, Fair, And Wise Is She; The Heaven Such Grace Did Lend Her, That She Might Admired Be.