Silence Is The Perfect Herald Of Joy.

The Tempter Or The Tempted, Who Sins Most?

As Chaste As Unsunned Snow.

For Sorrow Ends Not, When It Seemeth Done.

I Am Joined With No Foot Land-rakers, No Long-staff, Sixpenny Strikers, None Of These Mad, Mustachio Purple-hued Maltworms, But With Nobility And Tranquillity.

And Sleep, That Sometime Shuts Up Sorrow's Eye, Steal Me Awhile From Mine Own Company.