He Who Know Most Grieves Most For

He Is, Most Of All, L'amor Che Move Il Sole E L'altre Stelle.

O Faithful Conscience, Delicately Pure, How Doth A Little Failing Wound Thee Sore!

If Your World Isn't Right, The Cause Is In You.

It Was The Hour Of Morning, When The Sun Mounts With Those Stars That Shone With It When God's Own Love First Set In Motion Those Fair Things

Pure Essence, And Pure Matter, And The Two Joined Into One Were Shot Forth Without Flaw, Like Three Bright Arrows From A Three-string Bow.