Retire Me To My Milan, Where Every

Open Thy Gate Of Mercy, Gracious God, My Soul Flies Through These Wounds To Seek Out Thee.

Foul Cankering Rust The Hidden Treasure Frets, But Gold That's Put To Use More Gold Begets.

My Pride Fell With My Fortunes.

But Men Are Men; The Best Sometimes Forget.

The King Hath Note Of All That They Intend, By Interception Which They Dream Not Of.