O Lord, Never Suffer Us To Think

Between Cowardice And Despair, Valour Is Gendred.

Poor Intricated Soul! Riddling, Perplexed, Labyrinthical Soul!

Who Ever Comes To Shroud Me, Do Not Harm Nor Question Much That Subtle Wreath Of Hair, Which Crowns My Arm; The Mystery, The Sign You Must Not Touch, For 'tis My Outward Soul, Viceroy To That, Which Then To Heaven Being Gone, Will Leave This To Control, And Keep These Limbs, Her Provinces, From Dissolution.

Since You Would Save None Of Me, I Bury Some Of You.

That Soul That Can Reflect Upon Itself, Consider Itself, Is More Than So.