Your Praises Will Become Your Wages.

Modest Wisdom Plucks Me From Over-credulous Haste.

Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till The Tree Die!

Cease Thy Counsel, For Thy Words Fall Into My Ears As Priceless As Water Into A Seive.

They May Seize On The White Wonder Of Dear Juliet's Hand And Steal Immortal Blessing From Her Lips, Who, Even In Pure And Vestal Modesty, Still Blush, As Thinking Their Own Kisses Sin.

My Tongue Will Tell The Anger Of My Heart, Or Else My Heart Concealing It Will Break.