If Love Be Blind, Love Cannot Hit

O Time, Thou Must Untangle This, Not I. It Is Too Hard A Knot For Me T'untie.

Leave Us To Our Free Election.

Love Is My Sin, And Thy Dear Virtue Hate, Hate Of My Sin, Grounded On Sinful Loving.

The Teeming Autumn Big With Rich Increase, Bearing The Wanton Burden Of The Prime Like Widowed Wombs After Their Lords Decease.

Master, Go On, And I Will Follow Thee To The Last Gasp With Truth And Loyalty.