By That Sin Fell The Angels.

Look What Thy Soul Holds Dear, Imagine It To Lie That Way Thou Goest, Not Whence Thou Com'st. Suppose The Singing Birds Musicians, The Grass Whereon Thou Tread'st The Presence Strewed, The Flowers Fair Ladies, And Thy Steps No More Than A Delight Measure Or A Dance; For Gnarling Sorrow Hath Less Power To Bite The Man That Mocks At It And Sets It Light.

Nay Then, Let The Devil Wear Black, For I'll Have A Suit Of Sables.

What? Do I Love Her, That I Desire To Hear Her Speak Again, And Feast Upon Her Eyes

Forget, Forgive; Conclude, And Be Agreed.

There's Nothing Ill Can Dwell In Such A Temple. If The Ill Spirit Have So Fair A House, Good Things Will Strive To Dwell With't