These Blessed Candles Of The Night.

Such Is My Love, To Thee I So Belong, That For Thy Right Myself Will Bear All Wrong.

That Which Is Now A Horse, Even With A Thought The Rack Dislimms, And Makes It Indistinct As Water Is In Water

There Is A History In All Men's Lives.

Tired With All These For Restful Death I Cry, As To Behold Desert A Beggar Born, And Needy Nothing Trimmed In Jollity, And Purest Faith Unhappily Forsworn.

In Peace There's Nothing So Becomes A Man As Modest Stillness And Humility.