Tear-falling Pity Dwells Not In This Eye.

If [god] Send Me No Husband, For The Which Blessing I Am At Him Upon My Knees Every Morning And Evening.

The Hebrew Will Turn Christian; He Grows Kind.

The Sweets We Wish For, Turn To Loathed Sours, Even In The Moment That We Call Them Ours.

I 'gin To Be Aweary Of The Sun, And Wish Th' Estate O' Th' World Were Now Undone.

I Do Desire We May Be Better Strangers.