The Prize Of All Too Precious You.

My Love Is Deep; The More I Give To Thee, The More I Have, Both Are Infinite.

The Path Is Smooth That Leadeth On To Danger.

Roses Have Thorns, And Silver Fountains Mud; Clouds And Eclipses Stain Both Moon And Sun, And Loathsome Canker Lies In Sweetest Bud. All Men Make Faults.

Death Rock Me Asleep.

The Bird That Hath Been Limed In A Bush, With Trembling Wings Misdoubteth Every Bush.