Get Thee To A Nunnery.

Think, When We Talk Of Horses, That You See Them Printing Their Proud Hoofs I' The Receiving Earth.

And Either Victory, Or Else A Grave.

Thou Detestable Maw, Thou Womb Of Death.

Virtue And Genuine Graces In Themselves Speak What No Words Can Utter.

My Grief Lies All Within, And These External Manners Of Lament Are Merely Shadows To The Unseen Grief That Swells With Silence In The Tortured Soul.