Love Asks Me No Questions, And Gives

My Stars Shine Darkly Over Me

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.

Our Holy Lives Must Win A New World's Crown.

My Purpose Is, Indeed, A Horse Of That Color.

When Sorrows Come, They Come Not Single Spies, But In Battalions.