Lord, Lord, How This World Is Given

My Heart Is Turned To Stone; I Strike It, And It Hurts My Hand.

Thou Ever Young, Fresh, Lov'd, And Delicate Wooer, Whose Blush Doth Thaw The Consecrated Snow

Despair And Die. The Ghosts

And Sleep, That Sometime Shuts Up Sorrow's Eye, Steal Me Awhile From Mine Own Company.

There's Such Divinity Doth Hedge A King That Treason Can But Peep To What It Would.