O War! Thou Son Of Hell!

We Cannot Fight For Love, As Men May Do; We Shou'd Be Woo'd, And Were Not Made To Woo

I Must Be Cruel Only To Be Kind; Thus Bad Begins, And Worse Remains Behind.

Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

So Holy And So Perfect Is My Love, And I In Such A Poverty Of Grace, That I Shall Think It A Most Plenteous Crop To Glean The Broken Ears After The Man That The Main Harvest Reaps.

O Villains, Vipers, Dogs, Easily Won To Fawn On Any Man!