The Sudden Hand Of Death Close Up

Poor Wretches That Depend On Greatness' Favor, Dream As I Have Done; Wake, And Find Nothing.

Desire Of Having Is The Sin Of Covetousness.

Fill All Thy Bones With Aches.

What Early Tongue So Sweet Saluteth Me?

But If The While I Think On Thee, Dear Friend, All Losses Are Restored And Sorrows End.