Many That Are Not Mad Have, Sure,

Thine Eyes I Love, And They As Pitying Me, Knowing Thy Heart Torment Me With Disdain, Have Put On Black, And Loving Mourners Be, Looking With Pretty Ruth Upon My Pain.

To Fear The Foe, Since Fear Oppresseth Strength, Gives, In Your Weakness, Strength Unto Your Foe, And So Your Follies Fight Against Yourself. Fear, And Be Slain--so Worse Can Come To Fight; And Fight And Die Is Death Destroying Death, Where Fearing Dying Pays Death Servile Breath.

Myself Will Straight Aboard, And To The State This Heavy Act With Heavy Heart Relate.

Our Enemies Are Our Outward Consciences.

When Love Begins To Sicken And Decay It Uses An Enforced Ceremony.