How Much More Doth Beauty Beauteous Seem

To Some Kind Of Men Their Graces Serve Them But As Enemies.

Tis Gold Which Buys Admittance--oft It Doth--yea, And Makes Diana's Rangers False Themselves, Yield Up This Deer To Th' Stand O' Th' Stealer: And 'tis Gold Which Makes The True Man Kill'd And Saves The Thief, Nay, Sometimes Hangs Both Thief And True Man.

Smooth Runs The Water Where The Brook Is Deep.

Why, Courage Then! What Cannot Be Avoided 'twere Childish Weakness To Lament Or Fear.

So Holy And So Perfect Is My Love, And I In Such A Poverty Of Grace, That I Shall Think It A Most Plenteous Crop To Glean The Broken Ears After The Man That The Main Harvest Reaps.