As You From Crimes Would Pardon'd Be,

The Foole Doth Thinke He Is Wise, But The Wiseman Knowes Himselfe To Be A Foole.

O Judgment ! Thou Art Fled To Brutish Beasts, And Men Have Lost Their Reason !

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself

Sleep Knits Up The Raveled Sleeve Of Care.

My Joy Is Death- Death, At Whose Name I Oft Have Been Afeard, Because I Wish'd This World's Eternity.