Guiltiness Will Speak, Though Tongues Were Out

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

Woe, Destruction, Ruin, And Decay; The Worst Is Death And Death Will Have His Day.

There Is Thy Gold, Worse Poison To Men's Souls, Doing More Murder In This Loathsome World, Than These Poor Compounds That Thou Mayst Not Sell.

What Time Hath Scanted Men In Hair, He Hath Given Them In Wit.

Nothing In His Life Became Him Like Leaving It.