This Goodly Frame, The Earth, Seems To

Graze On My Lips; And If Those Hills Be Dry, Stray Lower, Where The Pleasant Fountains Lie.

Women Being The Weaker Vessels, Are Ever Thrust To The Walls.

O, Here Will I Set Up My Everlasting Rest And Shake The Yoke Of Inauspicious Stars From The World-wearied Flesh

Temptation: The Fiend At My Elbow.

O, While You Live, Tell Truth, And Shame The Devil!