I Thought My Heart Had Been Wounded

Men From Children Nothing Differ.

And What Art Thou, Thou Idol Ceremony? What Kind Of God Art Thou, That Suffer'st More Of Mortal Griefs Than Do Thy Worshippers?

No Deeper Wrinkles Yet? Hath Sorrow Struck So Many Blows Upon This Face Of Mine And Made No Deeper Wounds?

I Must Be Cruel, Only To Be Kind.

It Is Not, Nor It Cannot, Come To Good, But Break, My Heart, For I Must Hold My Tongue.