The Filth Under The White Snow, The

Listen, Sweet Dove, Unto My Song, And Spread Thy Golden Wings In Me; Hatching My Tender Heart So Long, Till It Get Wing, And Flie Away With Thee.

The War Is Not Don So Long As My Enemy Lives. [the War Is Not Done So Long As My Enemy Lives.]

The Child Saies Nothing, But What It Heard By The Fire.

The Soule Needs Few Things, The Body Many.

The Dainties Of The Great Are The Teares Of The Poore.