Exceeds Man's Might: That Dwells

For Precious Friends Hid In Death's Dateless Night.

What's More To Do, Which Would Be Planted Newly With The Time, As Calling Home Our Exiled Friends Abroad That Fled The Snares Of Watchful Tyranny, Producing Forth The Cruel Ministers Of This Dead Butcher And His Fiend-like Queen, Who, As 'tis Thought, By Self And Violent Hands Took Off Her Life; This, And What Needful Else That Calls Upon Us, By The Grace Of Grace We Will Perform In Measure, Time, And Place.

Through Tattered Clothes, Small Vices Do Appear. Robes And Furred Gowns Hide All.

How Many Things By Season Seasoned Are To Their Right Praise And True Perfection!

I Had Rather Hear My Dog Bark At A Crow, Than A Man Swear He Loves Me.