One Sin Another Doth Provoke.

Angels Are Bright Still, Though The Brightest Fell. Though All Things Foul Would Wear The Brows Of Grace, Yet Grace Must Still Look So.

You Cram These Words Into Mine Ears Against The Stomach Of My Sense.

Hast Any Philosophy In Thee Shepherd? .• • • • . . . He That Wants Money, Means And Content, Is Without Three Good Friends; That The Property Of Rain Is To Wet And Fire To Burn; That Good Pasture Makes Fat Sheep, And A Great Cause Of The Night Is Lack Of The Sun; That He That Hath Learned No Wit By Nature Nor Art May Complain Of Good Breeding Or Comes Of A Very Dull Kindred.

At This Hour Lie At My Mercy All Mine Enemies.

The Expedition Of My Violent Love Outrun The Pauser, Reason.