I Feel It Gone, Yet Know Not

O My Good Lord, That Comfort Comes Too Late, 'tis Like A Pardon After Execution. That Gentle Physic, Given In Time, Had Cured Me; But Now I Am Past All Comforts Here But Prayers.

And Writers Say, As The Most Forward Bud Is Eaten By The Canker Ere It Blow, Even So By Love The Young And Tender Wit Is Turn'd To Folly, Blasting In The Bud, Losing His Verdure Even In The Prime, And All The Fair Effects Of Future Hopes.

We All Are Men, In Our Own Natures Frail, And Capable Of Our Flesh; Few Are Angels.

O Coward Conscience, How Dost Thou Afflict Me!

. . . It Is Impossible You Should Take True Root But By The Fair Weather That You Make Yourself It Is Needful That You Frame The Season Of Your Own Harvest.