Well, I'll Repent, And That Suddenly, While

O War! Thou Son Of Hell!

O, Pardon Me, Thou Bleeding Piece Of Earth, / That I Am Meek And Gentle With These Butchers!

Things At The Worst Will Cease Or Else Climb Upward To What They Were Before.

Sweet Flowers Are Slow And Weeds Make Haste.

Her Blood Is Settled, And Her Joints Are Stiff; Life And These Lips Have Long Been Separated: Death Lies On Her Like An Untimely Frost Upon The Sweetest Flower Of All The Field.