Every Man Has His Fault, And Honesty

Oh! That You Could Turn Your Eyes Towards The Napes Of Your Necks, And Make But An Interior Survey Of Your Good Selves.

Remembrance Of Things Past.

O Momentary Grace Of Mortal Men, Which We More Hunt For Than The Grace Of God!

Woah Is Me To Have Seen What I Seen See What I See

How Low Am I, Thou Painted Maypole?