If Thou Dost Love, Proclaim It Faithfully.

What Power Is It Which Mounts My Love So High, That Makes Me See, And Cannot Feed Mine Eye

Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It.

Aand In The End, Having My Freedom, Boast Of Nothing Else But That I Was A Journeyman To Grief?

O Momentary Grace Of Mortal Men, Which We More Hunt For Than The Grace Of God!

Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbled Shore, So Do Our Minutes Hasten To Their End; Each Changing Place With That Which Goes Before, In Sequent Toil All Forwards Do Contend.