Faults That Are Rich Are

They Say, The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention, Like Deep Harmony; Where Words Are Scarce, They're Seldom Spent In Vain; For They Breathe Truth, That Breathe Their Words In Pain.

I Think The King Is But A Man As I Am: The Violet Smells To Him As It Doth To Me.

Where Hateful Death Put On His Ugliest Mask.

My Heart Suspects More Than Mine Eye Can See.

Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It.