Conscience Is A Thousand Swords.

Lords, I Protest My Soul Is Full Of Woe That Blood Should Sprinkle Me To Make Me Grow. Come, Mourn With Me For What I Do Lament, And Put Sullen Black Incontinent. I'll Make A Voyage To The Holy Land To Wash This Blood Off From My Guilty Hand. March Sadly After. Grace My Mournings Here In Weeping After This Untimely Bier.

Daffodils, That Come Before The Swallow Dares, And Take The Winds Of March With Beauty.

Mine Eyes Are Full Of Tears, My Heart Of Grief.

A Turn Or Two I'll Walk To Still My Beating Mind.

Look How The World's Poor People Are Amazed At Apparitions, Signs And Prodigies!