Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till

My Love's More Richer Than My Tongue.

Virtue Is Chok'd With Foul Ambition

Your Cause Of Sorrow Must Not Be Measured By His Worth, For Then It Hath No End.

So May The Outward Shows Be Least Themselves: The World Is Still Deceived With Ornament. In Law, What Plea So Tainted And Corrupt, But, Being Seasoned With A Gracious Voice, Obscures The Show Of Evil? In Religion, What Damned Error, But Some Sober Brow Will Bless It And Approve It With A Text, Hiding The Grossness With Fair Ornament? There Is No Vice So Simple But Assumes Some Mark Of Virtue On His Outward Parts.

And Blind Oblivion Swallowed Cities Up.