Death, A Necessary End, Will Come When

A Wretched Soul, Bruised With Adversity, We Bid Be Quiet When We Hear It Cry; But Were We Burdened With Light Weight Of Pain, As Much Or More We Should Ourselves Complain.

The Prize Of All Too Precious You.

Thou Art The Mars Of Malcontents.

I Do I Know Not What, And Fear To Find Mine Eye Too Great A Flatterer For My Mind. Fate, Show Thy Force. Ourselves We Do Not Owe. What Is Decreed Must Be; And Be This So.

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind Thou Art Not So Unkind, As Man's Ingratitude.