Quips And Cranks And Wanton Wiles, Nods

Which Way I Fly Is Hell; Myself Am Hell.

The Starry Cope Of Heaven.

There Is No Truth Sure Enough To Justify Persecution.

Love-quarrels Oft In Pleasing Concord End.

But That From Us Aught Should Ascend To Heav'n So Prevalent As To Concern The Mind Of God, High-bless'd, Or To Incline His Will, Hard To Belief May Seem; Yet This Will Prayer.