Whose Heart The Accustom'd Sight Of Death

Love And Meekness, Lord, Become A Churchman Better Than Ambition: Win Straying Souls With Modesty Again, Cast None Away.

The Deep Of Night Is Crept Upon Our Talk, And Nature Must Obey Necessity.

There's Small Choice In Rotten Apples.

I'll Give My Jewels For A Set Of Beads, My Gorgeous Palace For A Hermitage, My Gay Apparel For An Almsman's Gown, My Figured Goblets For A Dish Of Wood, My Scepter For A Palmer's Walking Staff My Subjects For A Pair Of Carved Saints And My Large Kingdom For A Little Grave.

Now, My Co-mates And Brothers In Exile, Hath Not Old Custom Made This Life More Sweet Than That Of Painted Pomp? Are Not These Woods More Free From Peril Than The Envious Court?