My Grief Lies Onward, And

The Brightness Of Her Cheek Would Shame Those Stars As Daylight Doth A Lamp; Her Eyes In Heaven Would Through The Airy Region Stream So Bright That Birds Would Sing, And Think It Were Not Night.

My Desolation Does Begin To Make A Better Life.

Nature Hath Framed Strange Fellows In Her Time.

How Poor Are They That Have Have Not Patients.

Blind Fear, That Seeing Reason Leads, Finds Safer Footing Than Blind Reason Stumbling Without Fear: To Fear The Worst Oft Cures The Worse.