In Thy Youth Wast As

A Wretched Soul, Bruised With Adversity, We Bid Be Quiet When We Hear It Cry; But Were We Burdened With Light Weight Of Pain, As Much Or More We Should Ourselves Complain.

I Am Sir Oracle, And When I Ope My Lips, Let No Dog Bark.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still.

Thou Hast Her, France; Let Her Be Thine, For We Have No Such Daughter, Nor Shall Ever See That Face Of Hers Again. Therefore Be Gone Without Our Grace, Our Love, Our Benison.

God Bless Thee; And Put Meekness In Thy Breast, Love, Charity, Obedience, And True Duty!