The Wound Of Peace Is Surety, Surety

Hung Be The Heavens With Black! Yield, Day, To Night!

Flower Of This Purple Dye, Hit With Cupid's Archery, Sink In Apple Of His Eye.

Where Hateful Death Put On His Ugliest Mask.

Thy Words, I Grant Are Bigger, For I Wear Not, My Dagger In My Mouth.

You Have Too Much Respect Upon The World; They Lose It That Do Buy It With Much Care