You Are Made Rather To Wonder At

The Rarer Action Is In Virtue Than In Vengeance.

Some Rise By Sin, And Some By Virtue Fall.

My Crown Is In My Heart, Not On My Head.

The Lily I Condemned For Thy Hand, And Buds Of Marjoram Had Stol'n Thy Hair: The Roses Fearfully On Thorns Did Stand, One Blushing Shame, Another White Despair; A Third, Nor Red Nor White, Had Stol'n Of Both And To His Robbery Had Annex'd Thy Breath; But, For His Theft, In Pride Of All His Growth A Vengeful Canker Eat Him Up To Death. More Flowers I Noted, Yet I None Could See But Sweet Or Colour It Had Stol'n From Thee.

Faster Than Spring-time Showers Comes Thought On Thought.